Little Violet
by YourCompleteDemise
Summary: After a tragic massacre aboard the Steel Beast, Cyril is handed the next egg of prophecy – the purple dragon is contained within. He feels a threat on the horizon, and he knows it his duty to prepare them for it, but amongst chaotic raids on nearby civilisation performed by the secretive Red Phoenix and a struggle to prepare the purple dragon in time, he may not be up to the task.
1. Prophecy

Prophecy

He didn't expect this to be the last he saw of them.

They'd prepared to travel for a task set by him, accompanied by many people. Now the corpses of a dragon and their lover lay before him, ripping almost every strand of happiness his cold heart had left to shreds. Everybody else had met their end before him – his mother and father, his friends, and more importantly, his mate. They were gone, and had been for a long time now. But he'd desired, and certainly expected, to not outlive _them_.

That wasn't the case. The cold bodies of the dragon and the lover were mutilated. Their forms were cut, their limbs amputated, their lifeless faces torn from their necks. The brother didn't know what to say; he hadn't seen a moment of the tragedy, slumbering. He returned in tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

He felt the same emotions as the brother. He teared up and cried. He felt anger, then fear. And then, as suddenly as he'd cycled through every other emotion, despair.

There was light, though. There was a glimmer of hope amongst the terror. A singular egg, one he was familiar with yet had never laid his eyes on. Its shell shined beautifully underneath the moons of midnight. It reminded him of only more sadness; he'd had one just like it handed to him thirty eight years ago. The look of scorn and hatred on the parents' faces were burned into his mind when he received it. They probably expected him to dispose of something apparently accursed.

But there had been something special about it. That egg had contained the saviour of their world.

And this egg, just like it, was purple.

* * *

Once more, the Guardian of Ice, Cyril, dipped his claw into the inky vial atop his desk, writing a report based on the recent damages to a nearby village. It'd been attacked, almost every last house razed to the ground; fortunately, there hadn't been casualties, but the ruffians who'd ignited the fires and turned the village to rubble had gotten exactly what they'd desired. Food, and especially wealth.

At the time, there hadn't been many capable of defending it; too many meek moles, too many children. They'd all gotten out alive, which was at least the main thing. Cyril was fretting over himself and the town of Sliverclaw, however, where he'd taken to residing. If those bandits were after a huge abundance of gold, this was certainly the place to take it from. They were working along the river, he could tell, and while they weren't the next target, they would be one soon.

He furrowed his brow, pondering his next words. Never did he usually have a blank for what to write next. In his old bones, he felt something wasn't right. An odd feeling spiralled around his stomach, twisting and turning. He wasn't ill, he knew that much. Yet a strong feeling of dread overcame him.

Three hollow knocks on the arched oaken door to his office interrupted his thoughts and writings. He sighed, exasperated. "You may enter."

A purple form walked into his room, his face beaming. "Hi, Cyril. How's work?"

"Good afternoon, Master Spyro," he replied. While he adored the purple dragon – you simply couldn't dislike him, being the saviour of the Dragon Realms and the world thirty five years ago – these constant 'hello's and 'how are you's were slightly annoying. "And difficult, if you really need to know. I'm not in good health, like I used to be. My bones are too exhausted for this consistent workload."

"I figured. You should take a break, I think." Spyro looked up at the mantle piece above the crackling fireplace; portraits of Cyril and his royal lineage were perched upon it, as well as a picture of the Guardian of Electricity, Volteer. He didn't fit in with the other ice dragons, but he deserved a place with those as great as his many ancestors. "Why don't you take some time off? I could do this for you..."

Cyril shook his head. "I express my gratitude." He finally thought of the correct word, and continued dragging his claw along the page. "But I will be fine, I assure you. You have enough to do as is. Plus, we all know your writing is atrocious."

Spyro chuckled at that, nodding in agreement. "Heh, well, you're not wrong. Just an offer, Cyril. You can take me up on it anytime."

The Ice Guardian finished off the final page, read it over quickly, confident it was perfect, and moved it to the side. The report had to go back to Warfang, a train ride west. "You look like you could use a vacation too, Master Spyro. In fact, this paper needs to be delivered to Warfang. Why don't you head there with Cynder, take a few days off protecting us? She's gravid, and I'm sure she'll appreciate a more pleasant bed than the baskets here for when that happens."

"But the attacks, Cyril. I can't just leave..."

"Think of her, Master Spyro." The older dragon smiled weakly. "That hatchling's only days away; I can feel it. I will not allow her to give birth in such unfavourable conditions. We have guards here too, and this report needs to be taken to the Warfang's offices. I'm sure the guards are capable enough if anything does befall us."

"Cyril..."

"Spyro. We are fine, and will continue to be fine," he reaffirmed. He tossed the purple dragon a pouch of gold coins he kept hidden under his desk after dropping the report into it, to which he caught. Cyril wanted the best for the dragon and his mate, but he knew it would also stop the interruptions everyday, if only temporarily. He'd have silence to embrace for once. "Do what's best for her. Purchase two tickets for the train – three if you need that pesky dragonfly to go with you – and prepare for Warfang. I will not take no for an answer."

Spyro seemed uncertain, but Cyril's firm response was enough to keep him from arguing. "...Alright. But I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise."

"Very good, Master Spyro. Now if you could leave me to my own devices, I would be able to get more work done. Be gone."

Spyro nodded, padding out the door. The blue dragon went back to jotting down notes and scanning papers, happy to see the dragon going, and sighed contentedly. While he didn't openly admit it, he was excited to see the dragon Cynder was going to give birth to. While he wouldn't watch it himself, he was sure the dragoness' newborn would be strong and healthy. He wished the other Guardians could see the egg themselves, but they'd passed away long ago. He'd gotten over their deaths, having known they slipped away from existence peacefully.

For now, the Ice Guardian worked through his papers. He had too much to do at the moment... Maybe he should've taken Spyro up on that offer instead of letting him leave.

* * *

"Thank you so much for this, Cyril," Cynder's tone came forth over the Steel Beast's, the train's, tired engine. Her lower torso was swollen with her and Spyro's young, something the Guardian still had to admit he was exceptionally proud of. "I'm just surprised you let you him go."

"You're surprised I let him go?" Cyril laughed. "He always told me he _had_ to stay, Lady Cynder. It took a great deal of persuasion, you realise."

Cynder giggled gleefully with him. "Heh, I guess that's true. Seriously, though, thanks. I really needed this. Even if it is kind of a job too."

"My pleasure." Cyril heard muffled footsteps on the stone path approaching from behind him; Spyro had a look of befuddlement on his face when he walked up to them, a couple cases tied around his back.

"What's this about me?"

Cynder chuckled, nudging his side. "Nothing, nothing. Just talking about you."

"About... what? And have any of you seen Sparx? He should've been here already."

The Guardian shook his head, but as soon as he had the golden dragonfly buzzed over from the town, panting. "R-Right here, bro. J-Just got caught up with the female, ya know what I mean."

Cynder shot him a playful glare. "You are such a boy..."

"Well, what can I say, sis?" He shrugged nonchalantly. "I _am_ a boy. It's funny you realise that now, considering you always call me a girl. Thank you so much."

Cynder looked to be about to retort, but Cyril intervened before the pair could start bickering over negligible things. "You three should hop aboard. The train is about to depart for Warfang."

Most had filed into the Steel Beast already, prepared for their trip to Warfang. The engineer blew the horn, steam billowing out of its wide funnel. Chatter and conversation could be heard ensuing within the carriages, laughter and cheerfulness all around. Many of them sounded glad they were moving away from Sliverclaw.

He caught Cynder looking beyond the train station, but only for a moment. Whitewallow, the timberland utilised in Sliverclaw's fine houses. Despite it being used fairly often, something about its deep, yawning maw chilled Cyril. Rich oak grew for miles inside the huge forest, but all inside was gloomy.

"Come on, Spyro. We're gonna be late."

He tore his eyes away quickly, looking to the purple dragon. "Yes, yes, get moving. I have things to do today."

"...Okay." He seemed confused, but listened to his mate and Cyril anyway. Cynder paced along, taking extreme care with her steps, and Spyro was swiftly by her side. The dragonfly hovered over them, waving to Cyril.

"See ya, big blue guy!"

A smirk curled Cyril's maw as the pair jumped aboard. Grinding together, the train wheels span, and the huffing of the engine picked up in volume. He could spot the pair of dragons through a window, grinning happily. As the train left Sliverclaw Station, he walked off.

Hopefully all would go as planned, and Cynder's beautiful child would cast a finger of sunlight upon his dull, rainy life when they returned.

* * *

This day was yet another bore for Cyril. He blew small shards of ice over the lush garden beds surrounding his house, watching as they melted. He was astonished because his desks were empty and his mail hadn't been delivered by the couriers yet, meaning no work. The dragon thought this would be an excellent opportunity to have a little time to himself, but the more and more he tried to find something entertaining in even the slightest, the worse his lack of enthusiasm for doing anything became.

There was nothing in his life worth waiting for at the moment, apart from Cynder's hatchling. He'd spent ninety eight years of his life doing horrible work so far: eighteen growing and training to become the Guardian he was today, thirty four waging war in Dante's Freezer, keeping the land free of apes – to which he was unsuccessful. And the rest in his office, writing reports and important documents for people of higher social status. At least fifteen years of those years after the war had been spent in a blossoming relationship with Volteer, which had been about one of the only positives. But every other moment he'd been doing bland work, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, life-threatening work to ensure the safety of his people. He couldn't possibly have been in a worse position. His ancestors would throw curses his way if they knew he hadn't became king, and for all he knew, they could be doing so right now.

But he knew that hadn't been possible. For once, he'd had to swallow his shallow arrogance and do the right thing; he had to become a Guardian. And even though he and his fellow dragons, moles, and cheetahs eventually lost the fight in Dante's Freezer, he'd held the apes back long enough and held the trolls at bay long enough to make a huge difference in the war.

Despite how proud he was of himself, the old dragon found every aspect of his life now boring. He'd been one of those lucky dragons to escape war without any mental damage, and one of the even more fortunate few who'd danced with death and come out on top. Yet he didn't know if that was a good thing. He wasn't really helping anyone. Nobody needed him anymore.

Cyril stopped blowing icy shards over his vegetable garden, looking to the sundial next to his homely wooden house. Twelve in the afternoon. He had half a day left and he had spent it watering and doing casual reading. Really went to show how useful he was.

"Hello, Cyril," a feminine voice broke his train of thoughts. He turned to a slightly familiar red-eyed, red-scaled face, almost as old as himself. "I'm surprised to see you out of your office."

"Lady Seraphine," he greeted her. "How are you?"

She snickered. "Don't call me _Lady Seraphine_. Sera will do. And I'm fine. I just saw you up this hill back home and came to see why you're suddenly outside. No work today?"

"Um... Alright, Sera." He grinned lopsidedly, nobody having ever told him to not call them by Lady. Maybe she wasn't one for formal titles. "And you're spot on. I'm only just now realising that I'm bored without work as well as with it, though."

"Heh, it is surprising anyway, especially with all the attacks as of late. Are you worried about that band of bandits, Cyril?" She turned her voice to a faint whisper, looking around her before speaking. "Do you think they'll come here? Everybody's afraid they will, if you haven't realised, and even mentioning them almost gets you condemned to hell."

"Of course, I am definitely worried," he muttered. "I'm awaiting the moment they strike, because at the moment, they're on a straight line course for Sliverclaw. But, with the correct fortifications, I sincerely doubt they'll ever make it inside. We have enough guards, and... Well, I don't agree with placing all the pressure on him, but we have Spyro as well. All should be fine, Sera."

Cyril didn't know if he was telling a falsehood. Spyro hadn't fought in years, living peacefully in this small town after the war, and the guards had been slack lately, not training like he'd asked of them. Sure, with a bit of time, they'd relearn the skills necessary to defeat whoever this group of bandits was, but who knew how many of them there were. They could ravage a village in mere minutes; it wouldn't take long to find an imperfection in their defence and split it apart. He didn't know if _he_ could put up anything worth a damn nowadays, either.

"You don't sound sure of yourself, Cyril..."

He jolted upright, shoulders squared. "As I said, all should be fine. We don't know if they'll pass this way yet. They only seem to target the tiny villages and lone houses around us."

"Hm..." She tapped him gently on the back, a warm smile splitting her maw. "I think you're right. Not much to worry about. This group of ruffians is probably just one of those leftover bands of apes. Sliverclaw shouldn't have any trouble taking care of them."

"We shouldn't, but don't underestimate them," he explained. "This could all be worse than we think, although I have my doubts. It won't be anything as bad as the Dark Army, I'm certain, yet they have clearly shown they are a force to be reckoned with, whoever they may be."

Sera turned around, taking a step back down the hill. "I won't, but I will tell the townsfolk to stop bumbling about like fools." She winked at him. "I'll see you around. Come out more often, Cyril. It's a pleasure to talk to somebody who hasn't been driven mad by this ruckus."

He sighed back. "I'll do my best."

The red dragoness walked back down the hill. Before, she'd seemed weary, but there was something about her now that seemed full of energy. Cyril knew exactly how that felt – to be constantly exhausted, never wanting to leave the warmth and comfort of his basket of pillows and blankets – but had never seen somebody as ancient as himself moving with such energy, such happiness. Why she was joyful after a conversation about the recent attacks, he wasn't sure, but it did feel better to be able to give somebody something he never truly felt himself.

Cyril stared down the pathway from his position, bathing in the sunlight above. Sera was correct; he never came out, never really took in the city. The Guardian of Ice remembered choosing this area for his home, on the small hill overlooking Sliverclaw, for the spectacular view alone. He eyed the many oak buildings before him, the plethora of people doing business. He let his eyes descend upon the river, cutting perfectly through the middle of town, glistening beneath the sun, stretching towards the vast mountains on the distant horizon, standing like stone giants.

Maybe he needed to get out the house for once in his life. Perhaps his usually unending workload could wait a few moments for him some days to enjoy the afternoon sun.

* * *

By now, midnight, the purple dragon and his black dragoness would've arrived at Warfang. They wouldn't be crowded by raving lunatics and people with a desire to get at least a peak at the world's heroes, and would almost certainly be off slumbering next to each other in a hotel. The thought brought Cyril some peace, that they were safe and sound. Although, his paranoia was probably unneeded. While he did realise during his watch over the town that the tracks ran past the river, past the smouldering ruins of the recently decimated village, the bandits had to have moved on by this time, and there apparently hadn't been any damages to the rail line. And, of course, it was no easy feat of strength to bring the Steel Beast to a grinding halt if they were still around.

Daylight had vanished beneath the western mountain range a long time ago now, but Cyril stayed awake, trying to make the most of his unusual day off writing. He found himself reading a book under the glow of moonlight through his office skylight about handling weaponry, and elemental training and utilisation. While he couldn't hone his combat talents here – certainly not in the middle of the night, where he was bound to awaken the rest of town – he could read up on them in preparation for a session he had planned for tomorrow. It was about time he began training again. The malicious group of bandits responsible for this theft, arson, and occasional murder in the other towns could drop upon the city like a death hound in mere moments, and it was obligatory he was ready for a sudden attack.

Something banged against the door outside; a heavy thud that sounded a total of three times. Somebody was knocking. Who could possibly be up at this time, and why were they visiting _him_ , of every more interesting person they could see?

He got up, shambling along, wiping the exhaustion from his blue eyes. He made his way to the entry, swinging open the door.

Nobody, only the faint pitter-patter of rain. He looked towards town and saw nothing else but the cloak of night. It was just another knock and run. Cyril groaned, turning away from his door.

Something glinted in the corner of his eye before he moved off to his archaic tomes. A folded note, and a fancy, red seal he'd never seen before stamped on the corner of it. The seal had the picture of a bird, its wingspan wide, displaying the beauty of its feathers. He bent down and grasped the page, slamming the door shut behind him, pleasantly surprised.

 _Greetings, Cyril._

 _I would waste your time with a long explanation of everything that's happened, but, you see, I'm in a hurry. You can probably tell by my handwriting._

The old Guardian sat behind his desk once more after walking off, putting his open book to the side. He pondered why they would mention their dreadful handwriting if the letter had been given to him in a supposed hurry.

 _We are a group of bandits,_ the letter read. _We call ourselves the 'Red Phoenix'. But no, I'm not your enemy. I'm willing to help you because the thought of walking into a village to destroy everything that stands disgusts me. This isn't the peace we wanted after the Dark Master's reign. This isn't right._

 _So, I want to stand against our group. And I'm sure with your help, and perhaps Spyro's, we can put an end to this senseless, violent cruelty._

 _Don't worry about sending me a reply. I know you received this. I will contact you further down the track with more details. I never have enough time to write these damn things._

 _S.K._

Cyril's creased brow cast a shadow upon the letter. He peered through the box window on the left, making sure there wasn't a soul standing outside. Again, there was nothing.

Why did they want him of all people? What was so special about him that they needed him specifically? He wasn't sure. Any dragon could do almost any job better than him.

Unless this letter was a trick. Maybe this S.K. was trying to create the illusion of assistance towards his town, but only desired to rid themselves of him.

For now, Cyril left it alone. This figure from the 'Red Phoenix' couldn't be trusted. If they'd delivered this letter on their own, then they were still alone, and could probably be found.

Unfortunately, at this time, most of the guardsmen were slumbering, and awakening them all to track down and capture a target would take too long a time. They'd have disappeared by then. There was no point.

So, Cyril went back to studying his tomes. He had far more to gain from reading it than scrutinising the note he'd received.

* * *

By dawn, mail had found its way into the box outside. None of it was particularly special; just more lazy, mostly illiterate men requiring detailed reports on a wide variety of subjects. While his occupation did involve some out-and-about things, like overseeing the guards train, that was the bulk of it. While he'd never wish another war upon this world, most of the excitement had come from then, when he was youthful. He recalled being a fearsome fighter – the very best of the Ice Guardians. Still, he thought, those had also been some of the worst years he'd ever experienced. Unending slaughter wasn't what he wanted at all.

Somebody to spar with, however – somebody to warm up his fatigued bones – would've been fantastic. So, that day, instead of getting up and doing whatever the illiterate men told him to do, he headed to the small arena on the opposite side of town to begin tutoring himself in the art of combat once more. Those people could wait patiently if they were in need of his services. He'd make this another of _his_ days.

Walking down the cobblestone path through the town, he was greeted with surprised and shocked looks. Many muttered about his reappearance, about how he'd never once moved from his house until now. Most seemed that way because it was the second time in three days that he'd move away from his house.

Many a greeting was sent his way, and he returned them with a weak smile spread across his muzzle. It did shock him that so many still remembered his name, or at least what he was known for. Everybody knew everybody else in this small town, though, so perhaps it wasn't so astonishing.

The arena stood before him down the path. Originally, it'd been used for settling disputes and for entertainment, but its sandy grounds were only purposes for the training and education of children and guards nowadays. A wooden structure, tall in stature, was built off to the left, the school. He heard the faint murmuring and giggling of children inside it, a lecturer struggling to teach them.

Cyril paced underneath several arches of stone, oval rings protruding from the damp grass. The arena was tall; he could see a stadium through the doorway, row upon row of unoccupied seats curling like a serpent around a ring. It was the most easily recognisable location in Sliverclaw. Who wouldn't notice a massive circle of stone, bigger than several large cottages?

He felt the sand prick at his paw pads, scrunched it into a grainy ball with his claws. Reminders of his previous residence filled his mind. Far in the north, a dorm room next to the grounds for training the mind in the elements' secrets. Magic didn't come from physical strength. It was a matter of control, of concentration on the element, and making sure it didn't force itself through the maw or fizzle out.

The Guardian breathed in the scent of the arena, felt the blood rise in his chest as memories flooded his mind. Before he could think further on it, however, a noise broke his train of thoughts.

"Cyril?"

He whipped his head around to face the tone. A youngish dragon, in around his thirties, angled his head. He had scales of green, and he was noticeably muscular, his legs bulging.

"Master Jedrek." Cyril bowed his head in greeting. "Is all well?"

A group of younger dragons, children of no more than five, followed him through side entrance to the arena. All of the giggled and chattered excitedly amongst each other, as if in preparation for something. "Yeah. I'm surprised to see you is all, especially in the arena again."

Cyril chuckled. "Quite a while has passed since I was last here. I haven't made any efforts to practice in years."

"Oh, I'm sure you're still fit enough, even after sitting around for years." Jedrek spun towards his group of tiny students. Cyril didn't recognise any of them, nor knew who their parents were. He really had been cooped up in his house for a long time, disbelief still striking him. "Which of you wants to spar with Cyril, _great_ warrior of old, _Guardian_ of Ice?"

"My word, Jedrek!" exclaimed a flabbergasted Cyril. "I simply will not fight such small, innocent-"

"Mock fight, buddy." The green dragon shook his head, sniggering. Cyril nodded in embarrassed understanding, clearing his throat.

"Ahem..." He captured the attention of the children. Over exaggerating, he enthralled his small audience. "He is absolutely correct, young dragons. I am a great warrior. I may be, in fact, the _greatest_ warrior ever birthed. I will bet none of you can knock me down, but, if you take the challenge and best me in combat, you will receive... the rest of the day off class!"

After the announcement – Jedrek didn't seem to find it a great idea, but the students were probably not well-versed in conflict, so he let it slide – the class shouted and screamed, raising their paws. Cyril did almost laugh. He was slightly annoyed he wasn't doing what he desired, but he probably was about to thieve the arena away from the kids, maybe train with one of the guards.

"Me!" an energetic, pale red dragoness called now noisily than the rest. Cyril felt she reminded him of Seraphine. Something about her youthful eyes, he thought. Sera, despite being elderly, had that same look in her orbs. A grandchild, maybe?

He directed his outstretched claw to her, if only to sate his curiosity. "You first. Who might you be, dragoness?"

"I'm Alaina!" She bounced out of the crowd enthusiastically. If only she knew what a fight really entailed. "Hi, Mr. Cyril!"

The Guardian lowered his head to her level – Jedrek watched on, grin curving his maw. "Are you sure you wish to fight? You don't look... strong enough."

"I'm super strong, Mr. Cyril!" she proclaimed. "I could kill a death hound! You believe me, right?

A deep chuckle escaped his muzzle before he raised his head and turned around. "Alright. I believe you." He paced down the other end of the sandy arena, readying his paws. "Take aim. Charge. Do _whatever_ you can to bring me down, young one."

Jedrek spoke up. "Clear off, kids. Watch as the _master of ice_ decimates a small dragoness!"

For whatever reason, the other students were excited by the idea of watching one of their fellow classmates be pulverised. Maybe this mock battle would discourage them. Cyril licked his dry maw, drawing a paw through the sand grains. A tingle of energy, a rush of coldness, coursed up his forepaw.

Alaina reached her side of the ring. While Cyril certainly couldn't show her the full extent of a Guardian's powers – he didn't want to injure the enthusiastic dragoness, nor did he think he had the strength to unleash a fury upon her – he'd show her a few techniques. Just from the way she stood – maw open, expelling air that wavered with heat – he could predict her attack. He was surprised he could still analyse a target.

"Fight!" Jedrek shouted, and Alaina scampered towards him. Cyril stood his ground; she was already wasting her energy, moving so swiftly. Unfortunately for him, that energy seemed bottomless from the way she acted.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and he could sense Alaina's confusion, although she still sprinted with exceptional speed, her paws light upon the sand.

He could sense her movement. A building up of heat within her chest. He himself was connected to magic; he'd once devoted his life to it. And still, he hadn't lost his old skills.

Cyril slammed the ground with his front paw before raising it, a thick shield of ice forming across his paw. Just before the encroaching fireball could make its mark, it was bashed to the side with a forceful swing of his shield. He heard the explosion behind him, felt its warmth crawl along his spine. He shivered, for that was a feeling he hadn't felt in very long.

The shield dissipated and the crowd of children roared with excitement. Alaina looked astonished by his power and grace, but kept her eyes on her target, slowing down before beginning to circle him. She had natural talent and instincts, yet definitely needed much work.

He waited for her action, unmoving, watching behind him. "Make your move, dragoness. I await your action."

He thought he heard a guttural growl from the dragoness before she leaped for his back. Cyril span around, catching her paw in his own. She tried to pull away, grunting, but hadn't the strength to do so. "N-No fair!"

Cyril lifted her into the air, laughing. She narrowed her eyes while she swung about. "Young dragon, I think you'll find you've-"

Something tapped his chest: the blunt blade of her tail. He looked at the small red mark she'd made, and then back at her. Shock consumed him.

He'd lost.

Cyril placed her on the ground, brushing the sand off his scales. She seemed extremely disappointed, as if she really wanted to be lifted again.

Once more, he cleared his oesophagus and spoke. "It... looks like you are victorious, young dragon."

Alaina's head perked up at that, and a bright smile found its way to her mouth. "I-I am? I won... I _won_!

Cyril coughed, trying to stomach his mortification. If that'd been a real fight, he would've been dead, his heart having been penetrated. "Um, yes. Pat on the back, good going, all that other rubbish..."

Alaina skipped away gleefully; the children were bewildered, but were happy for their classmate when she returned. Cyril shuffled his paws in the sand. He tried to swallow his shame – shame for being beaten by no more than a child – and looked to Jedrek when he approached.

"Ha ha! That was pretty good, you bag of scales. Good on you for letting her win, though." Jedrek nudged him playfully. "I'm surprised you had it in you to do that."

Cyril nodded swiftly. "Y-Yes, you're welcome. As planned, Master Jedrek. But I will be off now. I have... matters to attend to."

He shook the ground as he took off, spreading his wingspan wide, not hearing Jedrek's response. The dragon felt far too embarrassed to stay any longer. At least Jedrek thought it was but a plan to allow her to come out on top. What would his ancestors say to him? That he was to be shamed upon? That he was a total embarrassment to them?

Cyril didn't know. He just kept flying, unable to accept the fact he'd been beaten by a mere child. Sometimes, he really couldn't stop himself from being arrogant.

* * *

Back to scribbling down notes and doing research it was for Cyril (this time he was almost glad he was doing it). Night encroached, dusky fingers spreading far and wide over Sliverclaw. The claws broke all light; unfounded anxiety settled in the depths of the Guardian's mind. He still thought of Spyro and Cynder. He wondered what they were doing as of now. Had Cynder's young came to exist yet? He couldn't know. Maybe they wouldn't come back for a while. His predictions may have been incorrect, for all he knew. It could be a week or two, perhaps a month, before the new child entered their world.

He shook his head, apprehensive. What if something bad did come of her? What then?

Cyril wasn't certain, going back to his notes. He needn't worry over them. They'd be fine.

He scrutinised his next page for several moments, pondering his next choice of words. Volteer had taught him much about language, maybe too much. When Cyril had stopped calling him a blabbermouth, he decided to listen attentively to what he had to say. Much of what he said was intelligent, and he, for no reason at all, acquired his tendency to use more and descriptive words when he didn't need to, and calling people by title had become habitual. Every male was 'Master', every female was 'Lady'.

Sometimes he cursed at himself. He tried to forget the day he'd moved on, journeyed to another plane of existence. Every time he thought of him or his complex dialect of language, sadness ached within him. Disease had struck, made its way through the yellow dragon's veins. There was nothing Cyril could do.

As his thoughts deepened, he heard a distant noise. It broke through the tranquillity of night, a soft chugging that steadily grew louder.

A steam engine, he thought. Had they already come back?

He made his move to inspect the situation, but a rapid – seemingly panicked, it sounded – tapping came from his door. Nobody knocked so quietly, and nobody would be inside his house at this time of night, nor ever. Only Sparx could fit through his front door's keyhole...

"You may enter," he said. As he'd expected, the dragonfly buzzed through the keyhole. "Sparx, what are you doing back... so..."

Cyril frowned; it was the most fearful he thought he'd ever seen the dragonfly. If he peered closely, Cyril thought he could see tears coursing down his little face.

"C-Cyril." His voice shook with fear. "Come quickly. I-It's... It's Spyro, Cyril. Spyro and Cynder."

The dragon's stomach churned. The anxiety swiftly turned to fear. Never had he ever seen somebody like Sparx speak so shakily, so seriously. "W-What's the matter with them, Sparx? What happened?"

"Th-They... Come." The golden dragonfly soared through the keyhole. Cyril felt as if his element was slowly turning the rest of his body to ice. He snapped free of his anxiety, and speedily paced out the door and out of his house.

Sparx illuminated the streets, his soft glow flickering ever so slightly. When in fear or great sadness, a dragonfly's luminous light would quiver. Something was deeply wrong. It chilled Cyril down to his very bone. There was no denying something horrid had come out of all this. Rushing to be by the dragonfly's side, he made his way across the cobblestone path and towards the train station.

The Steel Beast was waiting for him, steam billowing from its funnel, strangely backwards as thought it'd reversed all the way back. There was a mole outside, the engineer, something spherical in his gloved paws, by his waist, an object Cyril didn't recognise under the low light. He couldn't see any passengers – nobody at all but two bags already laid side by side. Cyril was speechless.

The engineer walked up to him and the dragonfly. His look at Cyril was solemn, but his seriousness was a façade over regret and sorrow. "I'm sorry, Sir."

With only that comment, he paced off, taking a seat on the rough path behind the pair. Sparx audibly sobbed beside him. Cyril straightened his features, inhaling deeply. He moved towards the bags.

The steam engine was flecked with red, he noticed. So were the bags. They seemed to leak blood, staining the grass a shade of crimson the blue dragon wouldn't ever forget.

He hovered over the first of the bags. He could already see purple slapped messily together with a disgusting hue of red. That day, Cyril regretted ever opening it.

The lifeless face of the purple dragon severed from his own body. Violet eyes glazed over, pale after death. An unnerving look arching his maw, caked in scarlet fluid. He closed the bag then and there, never daring another look. Cyril couldn't remain nonchalant.

Tears he hadn't cried for years trickled out of his eyes, crossing the bridge of his snout. They fell to the ground; Cyril almost felt as if he could listen to them drip onto the grass. Nothing issued a sound. All remained silent. Sparx stared quietly at him, unmoving.

"What happened? _Why_ did this happen?" Anger rose within his tone.

Sparx didn't seem to be able to answer. He held his mouth, as if about to let loose the contents of his tiny gut. Cyril didn't need to look at Cynder's bag to inspect her. He already knew what'd become of her.

And her child...

"If I may, Sir..." The Guardian turned to face the engineer, teeth bared, who looked on sombrely. The object held between his paws shined under the moonlight. Purple flashed before Cyril's damp eyes.

"What's this?" he asked quietly. The mole held the round object up for him to see. He gasped.

A purple shell. The prophesised one. It glimmered, as though it were a diamond. His anger was replaced by a glint of hope, yet at the same time, almost crippling despair.

"She laid it on the train. We had to stop. We were ambushed, Sir, by forces we don't know of. Spyro, he was... murdered first, off-guard after she laid. Everyone else was killed. They sent me back, out of mercy, with the egg, wanted me to tell you to watch the 'Red Phoenix'. Sparx was asleep in the back of the train, didn't hear anything. Was never caught, Sir."

Cyril nodded, wiping his eyes, but his maw continued to quiver. He straightened his posture, yet only shook. "G-Get a team of guards to dispose of any bodies, get some rest," he ordered. "Hand me the egg as well.

The mole did as he was commanded, shuffling off. The purple egg between his paws was familiar. He'd felt this exact feeling before, just without the look of loathing, of disgust. Sparx floated over, hovering above them. Cyril gave him a look, and something told him Sparx felt the same familiarity.

This was the egg of prophecies. He felt the baby's faint heart beat, felt the warmth building within it. If the young dragon inside really did have the purple scales of the legendary heroes and their father, then something terrible was approaching. This was the world trying to balance its magic. A card of darkness was in play.

Cyril looked to the skies for a moment, back at Spyro, then placed his scaly forehead to the egg. He closed his eyes, reciting Ignitus' blessing to the former purple dragon to the newly delivered egg.

"May the Ancestors look after you," he said. "May they look after us all."

* * *

 **Well, that was that.**

 **Now, before anyone asks, no, Stasis isn't going on hold or anything. This is just a side project I'm casually working on. I suddenly had this idea, and I just wanted to write it out so bad. So, I did, and here's the result so far. I hope you've enjoyed what you've seen (I guess if you got all the way down here, you thought it was at least somewhat interesting).**

 **I decided on Cyril as the main character. He never gets love, and I really wanted to expand upon his character. He is my favourite of the Guardians (other than Volteer :P), but I feel he was underused. I just really liked him!**

 **This story is also going to be far different to my others. It isn't an adventure novel, for one. I hope I can pull this off.**

 **Not much to say but thanks for reading the first chapter of _Little Violet_. I hope you enjoy the rollercoaster of emotions (maybe if I stop sucking) that I have planned for you fellow readers. :D**


	2. Crack

Crack

Cyril didn't have a choice but to take the purple egg in, raise it as his own. Nobody else could bring up the prophesied dragon without failing to prepare it for the dangers that lurked menacingly on the horizon. He only trusted himself to do it. Of course, never had he nurtured a child; the opportunity was stolen away from him, the eggs brutally smashed on that fateful day in the dragon temple. He still remembered the still, broken corpses of the young. Pale, eyes glassy and motionless, dismembered.

He shivered. That day, failure had spat in his face. He'd failed to do what he'd come home from Dante's Freezer to do, and was snatched away and tortured mercilessly.

This, however, he knew was going to be different – he'd make sure of it. The threat of the Red Phoenix weighed down on his shoulders, but he would do everything within his power to keep the new purple egg from shattering like all those others. It was a job he owed to all dragons – all creatures, even. And, without a doubt, he knew this hatchling would grow into the dragon Spyro had been with the proper care.

The Guardian placed his paw upon the egg. He kept it in a fibre basket wrapped in warm blankets and covered in straw that sat on a small stone pillar. He'd lined it with runic symbols he remembered from old history texts of long ago that spelled the word 'eternal'. "May your heart grow," he repeated for the third day. "May it never thaw."

Within Cyril's bookshelf lay Sparx, turned away from the items in the dragon's office, his mood for any banter – any snarky comment, remarks Cyril realised he was desperate to hear, to break the melancholic tone his house was succumbing to – doused by the passing of his brother. He didn't shift, unless told, didn't fly back to his house. Hardly spoke. He didn't so much as quiver his wings. If not for the steady movement of his breathing, one could think him dead as well.

He knew how the dragonfly felt. And when the news of the town's heroes had come to fruition, it spread like a bushfire. Everyone understood the pain. They understood the sorrow, the fear, the loss of hope. Everyone panicked. Sliverclaw's residents thought they and everybody around them were going to die. The Red Phoenix was coming for them, they said. They were doomed, they said, damned to the far reaches of hell.

He could only calm them, tell them it wouldn't change much. But he only lied to himself. This _had_ changed everything. Sliverclaw's denizens had a right to worry, and so did he. He tried his best to ignore it. He tried his best to forget the lifeless eyes of the purple hero he'd adored, tried to forget everything about him and the black dragoness. Nevertheless, though,none of his endeavours were successful... Why did he send them away like that whilst in the midst of all this raiding?

It was his fault, wasn't it?

Cyril paced between the walls of his room for a few moments, running a paw down his chin spike, then sat behind his desk and planted his face into the table, wanting to rip off the pale purple horns jutting from his skull.

"I'm sorry, Sparx..."

The silence was so evident, he could hear the dragonfly swallow. "You've said that six times, Cyril."

So he had. Sparx didn't sound like he knew whether to blame him or not. He thought it was sensible if the golden dragonfly did so. The Red Phoenix had stoked the fire that was their murders, but he had ignited the spark, turned an eighth of the citizens into disfigured corpses. Spyro and Cynder held his attention for longer, but he couldn't possibly forget the other lives viciously ended. To him, they were nameless casualties part of the tragedy, but the expressions on their loved ones' features during the huge funeral for everybody slain were unforgettable.

There came a low knock on the door outside; he barely heard the tapping. Cyril lifted himself, clearing his throat. There'd been several at his door, but he hadn't responded, preferring to stay cooped up inside like old times. Not once had he left his home since the massacre. But he couldn't stay like this all the time.

Eventually, he huffed lowly to himself, making his way through the hallway holding his unused bedroom – he slept in the office most of the time – and bathroom, and into the living room and entry. The tapping came again, a little louder and more rapid this time. He grasped the handle, swinging the creaky door ajar.

"Hi, Cyril," Sera's voice came forth. He eyed the old, red dragoness, unable to adjust his frown into a look of cheeriness. She extended a paw to greet him, thin smile on her maw. Slowly, he took it.

"Hello, Sera," he responded, shaking her paw. "What is it?"

She sighed, letting go, her smile fading. "I came over to check on you. You were coming out more often than usual before, I saw, and now you're back in here. Not...not that I can blame you for it, though. I'm really sorry about what happened."

He nodded; she clearly knew his reasons for staying away from society. Really, he just wanted to be by himself at the moment, perhaps chatting every now and then with Sparx. Still, he didn't want to be impolite. "It's fine, Sera. I'm just in the process of mulling over what happened at the moment. We lost more than Spyro and Cynder. There were youths on that train too... Around an eighth of Sliverclaw has been massacred."

"Yes, I know." She shook her head from side to side, as though in disbelief. It certainly was difficult to believe such a thing had happened on the steam engine, even after the recent attacks. "My granddaughter, Alaina, had a friend on that train. She... doesn't understand he's not coming back."

Intriguing, he thought, because he had guessed Alaina's grandmother correctly. Maybe he had an eye for pointing out similarities. They had the same number of horns, two curving at the tip, nearly identical narrow muzzles, and a similar hue of orange across their chests. All this he'd remembered, and he'd never been perceptive.

"I do want to thank you for what happened in the arena, though, Cyril, which is mainly why I came today," she continued, her grin returning ever so slightly. "Alaina came home early a few days ago, and told me all about how she'd beaten up our resident Guardian of Ice. I didn't know you were any good with kids."

His eyes met hers for a moment, and he was unable to keep an awkward smirk of his own from emerging. "Well, she was victorious and won fairly, but I assure you, Sera, I was not trying to come out on top myself. Certainly not..."

"You don't sound sure of yourself."

"I was _not_ trying!"

She shook her head, laughing. "Whatever you say, Cyril."

"I will say," he said, changing the subject from his mortifying loss against a youth, "Alaina's fireballs are incredibly powerful for her age. You've obviously been teaching her a few tricks, Sera, more than she should be learning for her age. You've done an outstanding job at assisting her in keeping them stable, whilst also being certain the explosion packs quite the punch."

The old dragoness' eyes lit up at his remarks. "Wow, you actually noticed? Just by looking at her fireball alone? Thank you!"

"My pleasure, Sera. I did study the elements after all." He looked towards the sundial beside the house: still early in the morning, judging by the shadows it produced. He had some time. "Would you like to come inside? I can stir up some tea for you."

She seemed to ponder the choice she'd been given, but shook her head after a moment. "No, but thanks for the offer. I need to get back to Alaina. She's probably stirring up trouble inside the house."

He nodded, disappointed but understanding. "I see. I will get back to my writings and tasks for the day. Warfang needs knowledge of the events that have transpired."

The dragoness, like last time, winked at him. "See you, Cyril."

He smiled weakly back and closed the door, then he went to his work once more.

* * *

Ever since the attack on the Steel Beast, Cyril had had a great deal of interviewing and paperwork ahead of him. He still hadn't sent the letter to Warfang – he struggled to think of the correct words, and it didn't seem anyone was willing to board the train again – so in the meantime he'd spent much of his day chatting to others. He desired the truth as to what happened.

Unfortunately, with everyone on the train having been slaughtered, there were only two people he received helpful answers from, and even they were as vague as he'd feared. Sparx didn't say many words, but he had mentioned he was asleep in the very back of the train and didn't see anything but the bodies. The engineer's answer, on the other paw, was that he'd seen something he couldn't describe properly. The train came grinding noisily to a halt when this _blob_ , in his words, leaped into the main compartment of the train, knocked him to the floor, and pulled the emergency break, only to join a whole bunch of blobs inside the first passenger carriage. He saw it phase through the door, and he was only able to watch on as the citizens of Sliverclaw were beaten down and reduced to limbless, decapitated corpses.

That was all he had to work with, other than the note. But even that didn't help him; it was only there to tell him somebody within the group of savage marauders was an ally and they could be trusted. Not revealing your true name – S.K. didn't cut it – and having suspicious things printed all over the paper, including the red bird seal, didn't help in the trust department, though.

Cyril shifted away from his desk, sighing deeply. He had nothing to work with, unless he decided to head towards the area the slaughter had occurred, but one hundred kilometres east of here, along the rail, was not a place in his best interests to travel to. The Red Phoenix, by his quick calculations, were spread far and wide, certainly a group to be wary of. Arsonists, thieves, and recently mass murderers. And the slayers of Spyro and Cynder, the two greatest heroes the Dragon Realms and the world had ever seen. How they'd so brutally murdered the dragon who'd pulled the world back together, slain the Dark Master, was as astonishing as it was petrifying.

He suppressed a tremulous breath. They were going to be attacked, weren't they? Everybody was going to be killed. Sliverclaw wasn't going to be anything but a dreaded memory by the time the thugs had their way. And he couldn't do anything to prevent it...

He grunted. "No," he spoke to himself quietly. "Nobody will succumb to these rotten bandits. I'll be certain of it..."

Sparx, still resting upon the bookshelf, unfinished butterfly beside him, sighed. "Could we evacuate?"

Cyril jolted upright. Why, the golden dragonfly was a genius! How hadn't he thought of that? If he could just load everyone onto the train...

Now the idea seemed unappealing. He couldn't risk allowing the rest of the town to suffer at the hands of the Red Phoenix. They weren't merciful. They'd be all murdered, and then what was the point?

"It's too dangerous to travel, Sparx, on a train or without one." He then looked to the dragonfly, smiling thinly. "But do keep thinking. That's the best idea we've had."

"Then we're all outta choices," he said grimly. "We're all going to end up dying. Just like Spyro."

Cyril narrowed his eyes. "Don't feel that way, Sparx."

"Well, I'm sorry, big guy." He turned to face the dragon; it was the first time Cyril had laid his eyes on his face in days. His eyes were lined with scarlet from tears. "B-but I don't think you understand what it's like to lose a brother. He died for nothing. Absolutely _nothing_."

"No, most definitely not." Cyril paced towards the dragonfly's temporary residence. "But I do know of loss. Only days ago I lost a great friend – two, to be precise. And before then as well, I failed. I watched my fellow Guardians be slain before my eyes, was unsuccessful in making sure the dragon eggs hatched and grew into what Spyro became. I've lived with it throughout the entirety of my life, and I've realised the feeling never changes, Sparx. It hurts."

The dragonfly didn't have a response. He shifted around, facing away from Cyril.

The Guardian softened his tone. "We have all lost something precious to us and nothing can change that. But be more optimistic, Sparx. Never forget that there is always a chance. Even if there's nothing left to live for, we can believe the Ancestors will smile down upon us and present us with solace. Plus, I'm...sort of beginning to miss your blasted attitude."

Sparx huffed gently as Cyril smirked. He didn't hear another noise from the glowing dragonfly, but he was happy he could halt an argument before it began.

If only he could believe his own words.

Truth be told, Cyril couldn't possibly fathom even the idea of staying hopeful throughout this ordeal. They were doomed to a life of waiting for the inescapable to happen. The grounds were too dangerous to travel by, nobody could fly for a week to reach a safer location without lighting on the floor for a rest, and they had nothing in the way of equipment to travel across the sea. If they were to construct anything, the raw materials would need to come from the forest, and even that now seemed threatening to their lives.

Forced into waiting for his demise, what could he do?

Well, he thought, there was one thing. There was an egg – a purple one, to be exact. Why would the Red Phoenix leave something that had a chance of saving Sliverclaw and the world alone? They could've smashed it, released the vessel of aether into the world unborn, and yet...

They'd made an imbecilic error. Cyril almost chuckled to himself. That singular act of compassion for the purple egg might've ended up being their downfall. All he had to do was await the moment the egg would crack and shiver, at least a month from now.

That wouldn't take too long to come, right?

* * *

The last four days of that week were perhaps the most monotonous and miffing he'd ever had, probably worse than the time he'd spent as a captive in Tall Plains. At least then he'd had somebody to talk to, even if the Terror of the Skies hadn't been a particularly charming individual at the time. Nobody came to his doorstep, not that he was expecting anybody to, and Sparx was about as antisocial as he'd anticipated. Not like the Ice Guardian could really blame him for that.

And then, just after thinking about it, the door thumped three times. The window showed the sun setting, dusk settling upon the city like a luminous blanket. He frowned, unsure of what kind of person this may be. Barely a soul knocked on his front door, and definitely nobody at this time.

He made the quick trip towards his door and opened it. Battered, as if lashed by a whip, stood a tall grey wind dragon. He was covered head to tail in scrapes and bruises, recent scars. Cyril's maw dropped at his appearance.

"H-hello, Sir..." his faint, hoarse voice came forth. Flecked in crimson, he bled on the floorboards, barely able to stop himself from collapsing under his weight. It only took the Guardian a second to realise he was staring at their local courier, carrier of every delivery between Sliverclaw and Warfang.

"Master Kemori! What in the name of the Ancestors happened to you?"

"A-attacked... I'm fine, really." He spluttered throatily. "J-just a few scrapes."

"Most definitely not." Cyril walked to the dragon's side, draping a wing over his back and under his stomach to keep him from falling. "You look as though you've had a death hound ravage your body. Come inside. I should have spirit gems lying around."

Kemori didn't argue further and walked, with a limp to his step, with Cyril inside. The Guardian deposited him behind a table, where the courier let his jaw descend upon it. Immediately, he looked as if he'd fallen unconscious, his injuries far too great in number and size, but he managed to keep his silver eyes narrowly open. Cyril noticed the large array of wild slashes across his figure then. Kemori continued to dampen the floor with his lifeblood as the Guardian stamped quickly down the hallway to his office.

He burst through the doorway, startling an already perturbed Sparx, rummaging through his many drawers for a pair of mitts. Without them, he'd end up absorbing the crystals' energies.

"What's happening, Cyril?" the dragonfly asked. Cyril didn't speak up, drawing leather mitts over his forepaws. Reaching into the very bottom drawer, he unlatched a metal lockbox, pulling red and green crystals from amongst the many blue and purple, closing it again as swiftly as possible.

Stomping towards Kemori again, he set himself down and applied the crystals. The courier soaked them up as though he were a bloody sponge, the bruises already fading and the slashes sealing over with new, flimsy tissue. In the corner of his eye, Cyril noticed the golden dragonfly flutter curiously over, raising a little brow at the nearly broken body of the courier. It was the first time he'd come out of his own accord for days.

"Th-thank you," Kemori muttered weakly. He tapped his side, a hide pouch slung around his neck. "You can take that if you want. Sort through it, t-take out your mail. It's all that's there. And I'm gonna rest here if you're fine with that."

"Let the spirit gems take effect, yes." Cyril gently pulled the pouch from his scaly neck and opened it. There weren't many letters, most work-related, stamped with the seal of Warfang: it was a picture of creatures of varying shapes and sizes standing in unity, holding paws. There was one, however, that caught his gaze.

The symbol of the Red Phoenix was finely printed on the last letter, and unlike the last note he'd received, this was done up neatly in an envelope. Cyril whipped his head around to Kemori, bewildered. "Where did you unearth this, Master Kemori? How did this find its way into your paws?"

Sparx angled his head leftward. "It looks like a normal letter to me. What's so weird about it?"

"I dunno." Kemori shrugged. "I was hit by something and I fell out of the sky. A-And then these strange... _blobs_ started lashing out at me with sickle swords, and that's why I'm so battered. I... I think I was left to die, but I managed to survive and make it here. That letter must have been on me when I came to."

Cyril pondered tearing it open, loosing its contents, but he fought off his curiosity so he could care for the courier. There had been another attack, but at the very least this wind dragon wasn't fatally injured. It was a far cry from the severed skulls and brutal amputations. The Guardian continued to find it strenuous to think about without an illness building in his gut.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, if only to get his train of thoughts off the previous subject. "Tea perhaps? I have a stockpile of conis leaf. It's widely regarded a fantastic beverage if you've recently been injured. The leaves have healing properties."

Kemori shook his head, smiling. "Thanks, but I'm alright. I have mail to pick up from town, and I need to get back to Warfang."

"You can't be serious!" Cyril exclaimed. "You're willing to fly back over there? It's far too dangerous, what with all these attacks. I simply will not allow you to waste your life away..."

"Sorry, Cyril, but duty calls," he said. The courier lifted himself from his seat, the spirit gems still working their magic on his more serious slashes. He groaned, but chose to ignore the agony clearly jolting through his body. "My life's not important. I was chosen for this job, so obviously the Guardians of Warfang didn't think so. If I die, I'll just get replaced by another."

"Master Kemori, if I may–"

"The mail has to be delivered by somebody, whether villages are being destroyed or not." Kemori paced towards the entrance. "...Really, if there's one good thing about them, then it's that there's less mail to take across the Dragon Realms."

Cyril frowned at him and his words, but chose to ignore what somebody probably would've found offensive. "I guess I cannot stop you then. Let me retrieve my letters so you can get moving."

He searched through his file drawer after placing the unopened envelope on his desk amongst his disorganised mess of instruments. The ice dragon ran them back to Kemori, who stood idly in the arched doorway.

"Here," he said, handing them to the courier. "Just stay safe. Watch your surroundings, and next time bring somebody else through this route. These continue to be dangerous times, Master Kemori. Stay away from the rails as well."

The couriers across the world generally would've taken a train, and Cyril had to think about why he wasn't taking it. Perhaps Warfang's council felt the rails were too unsafe in a period like this. He realised they had a right to fret over them, considering the events that had transpired. Still he could never get over the deaths of those dear to him or the fact the Red Phoenix was coming to ravage their little settlement.

"You don't usually hand me letters with a seal, Cyril," Kemori said. He was correct; generally, he would sign his initials on them, but this letter was more important and called for a stamp to signify it was impertinent that it made it to Warfang. "Just how important is this letter?"

Cyril swallowed, clearing his throat. "You haven't heard the news, right. Neither has anybody but the citizens of Sliverclaw... Spyro has passed, Kemori. Spyro _and_ Cynder."

Sparx exhaled beside him, reminding him he was still there. It didn't matter, however, because he ended up buzzing out of the entry anyway. Cyril inspected the courier next, his face one of astonishment.

"W-what? Dead?"

The Guardian lowered his gaze to the floor. "I'm afraid so. All the details are in the letter. If you wish, you may open it, but please be certain it makes its way to the offices. The word needs to spread, and we need to begin preparing. There is a new purple dragon, Kemori. Dark times indeed approach us."

"That's...not good." He appeared to gulp down a ball of fear, but Cyril was unsure if he had. "I better get this to Warfang as quickly as possible. Thanks for telling me. I'll be sure to tell my family."

"Alright. Safe travels, Master Kemori." Cyril waved his paw. "Be cautious if you really are venturing back to Warfang. We cannot suffer more losses to this brutality."

Kemori returned the wave and a small smile before rushing eagerly out the door, as though he'd never almost succumbed to wounds to begin with. Even for a dragon with such a significant task, he sure did move with enthusiasm. Instead of watching him move off to take the town's mail, though, Cyril decided he would scrutinise the messages he'd been presented with, specifically the letter from the Red Phoenix. Perhaps it was this S.K. once more.

Settling himself beside his desk, Sparx hovering over his shoulders, he tore a clean slit in the top of the envelope and pulled the note out. It was folded like the last one, scribed on yellowed paper. He didn't waste any time in unfolding its contents, watching as a small golden amulet fell from the paper to his desk. He noticed the striking amethyst embedded inside, reminding him of the purple dragon he'd once known, but swiftly got to reading the letter.

 _Greetings, Cyril._

 _Before you ask any questions, yes, it is me again. And I must say, I am very sorry about your loss. I was on the train when it happened._

Cyril growled to himself. He was completely undecided on whether he could trust these notes, but they had his curiosity piqued.

 _Let me assure you, however, that I did not murder a soul on that train. I entered, watched the massacre, but couldn't stop anyone, otherwise I would have risked blowing my cover. I did make sure some escaped the slaughter, however. There were a couple, and they hopefully headed to Warfang, but the majority were murdered, as you may know._

 _Without Spyro, pulling off the plan brewing in my mind will be difficult. But we have time on our hands. I have managed to convince our leader, R.D., from besieging Sliverclaw. He now thinks you have a weapon that will wipe us out: a powerful cannon that fires pure light aether. He is afraid of this. Of course, I know you do not have anything of the sort. That kind of science is not possible, but he doesn't know that, and nor does anyone but me here. Most of us don't focus on anything but crime and murder; it's an absolute joy to nearly all of us, and nearly all of us love the look of horror and fear on each person's face when they're murdered._

 _That's not me as you may be able to tell. We are the Varlends, and you probably haven't heard of us as we are relatively new. That's what most live for, us creatures birthed within the Well of Souls itself, but some of us are born with more complex feelings. They don't know I have these, and if they did, I would become an outcast, at worst be executed for having these feelings. They seek only to destroy. I want tranquillity._

 _For now, you should be safe. I don't need a reply, but I hope the courier, who the Red Phoenix came across today, got this to your door. Please, raise the new purple dragon well. I've enclosed an amulet for them, something very dear to me. I'll send another letter soon._

 _(Sorry about the messy handwriting again. I was finishing this when my group walked off without me after nearly murdering that courier.)_

 _S.K._

He still didn't know what to make of any of this information. They were trying to ensure safety for Sliverclaw's people, to make him believe they were, yet he couldn't begin to trust them. Not now, and possibly never. Preparations for an approaching band of bandits were to be continued as usual, even if Cyril didn't believe they could thwart this menace.

The mysterious S.K. was correct about his race, too; he'd never heard or read a word about a newly emerged group of creatures called Varlends. Maybe that was a farce, although them being from the Mountain of Malefor could explain what the engineer had meant about phasing through walls and doors. Only darkness and chaos spewed from the mountain.

He looked at the amulet; lustrously, it glinted in his blue eyes, like a thread of light. The purple gleam of the beautifully cut gemstone reminded him of violet scales. It brought memories back surging through his mind. The golden circle and chain had more of a pale yellow look to them. Something about it was reminiscent of Warfang, but he couldn't quite place a claw on it.

"Huh. Maybe we'll be safe after all."

Cyril peered over his shoulder and scowled, but a tiny grin played on his maw anyway. "You are not supposed to scrutinise another's letters, Sparx. I could haul you off and imprison you if I desired it."

For the first time in a while, the dragonfly smirked, however negligible it looked. "You wouldn't, big guy. You love me too much."

The Guardian exhaled, narrowing his eyes, but his slight happiness persisted. "Be gone, gnat, before I really throw you in there."

Sparx shrugged innocently, gliding away, voice fading down the hallway. "I'm too small for the bars..."

"I'll put you in a bottle and mount you on my shelf!"

That immediately shut the dragonfly up. Glad he was, though, of being able to brighten Sparx's grief-stricken mood. After all this, things were starting to look up for the dragonfly. In a way, he was surprised by how swiftly he seemed to be getting over his brother's death. Even Cyril didn't feel ready to accept the fact he was gone. It was just so unbelievable to think such a dreadful thing could happen in what were supposed to be peaceful times. In spite of the Dark Master's fate, there were those that proceeded to murder endlessly.

Cyril turned his gaze to the purple egg on its little pedestal, lifting himself from the floor to move towards it. Amulet in paw, he nestled it inside the hay beside the egg. Even if he couldn't believe the letter, this was a nice gesture. They'd requested he bestow it on the hatchling, and there were no obvious curses attached to it. If there had been, he would've detected it already by holding it alone. Unnatural energies were identified rather easily – they stood out – when you were connected completely to the opposite side of the magical spectrum.

It'd been a week now, he realised, since the engineer had handed over the egg from the train. That meant three more, and boy were they going sluggishly. He had much to keep him occupied, but those things didn't make the days shoot past him; time didn't soar. Yet he could continue to wait. He was determined to not allow anything terrifying to befall the egg or the dragon within, and they, he knew, would light the dull globe that was his life.

Waiting was just difficult.

* * *

Under a yellow glow, Cyril had inspected the egg. Healthy, it seemed; although only a murky figure, he spotted the fragile form of the dragon within. It was lean, but certainly strong, like their father. He was unsure of gender at this stage, but that was going to be the surprise when the hatchling slackened its hold and finally unearthed itself from its hollow cradle.

That day, however, he left the egg to Sparx for watch over. He needed to get out, needed to do _something._ Another week he'd sat around doing business. While he hadn't received a return letter from Warfang like he was expecting, he did have other things. Recently, he'd caught word another train had been forced to stop, and its passengers had met with the same fate as Sliverclaw's. People were anxious. There had been too many arriving at his door to complain and hand their anger over to him, as though on platters. While he did enjoy the fact people were knocking on his door, none of it made him any happier. Always he would try to persuade them they'd be fine, but his replies always finished with the same phrase.

"There is nothing I can do."

And then he shut the door. The visitors were getting under his scales, driving him to insanity. So, that day, he decided to let off some steam in the arena, do some practice in case an attack was approaching. It was a weekend without mail, so he had all the time in the world to practice privately.

With a powerful roar, the old dragon slammed his fist into the shimmering dunes, raising several golems constructed with his element from the ground. They stood as still as stone, as though perplexed by why they had been summoned by the Guardian. Although weaker from utilising his energy for building these golems, Cyril felt confident.

"Battle me," he ordered. "I want you to direct all your power into bringing me to the ground."

Like mindless slaves, the golems circled around him, following their commands. He watched as they moved around him, predicting which would move first. They were of his own creation after all.

One on the far left. It rushed at him, bulky arm raised over its head. Cyril, with a forceful swing of his barbed tail blade, sent it flying, reducing it to icy fragments. Almost immediately, however, it rebuilt itself once more, albeit shoddily.

Another came, and it shattered against the sand under Cyril's mighty paw. Yet another; it met the same fate. Cyril felt this was too simple, almost calling them off.

He heard an excited gasp. Quickly, he turned his head towards the sound; a little red-scaled dragoness stood on the outskirts of the arena, paw covering her mouth in surprise. She seemed about to run off, having been noticed staring at the ensuing clash, but Cyril stopped her, making sure his targets evaporated before moving towards her. She stopped in her tracks, eyes cast shamefully towards the sand.

"S-sorry for staring, Mr. Cyril," Alaina spoke before he'd reached her. "I just came around and saw you...being so _cool_."

It turned out his wishes of being uninterrupted were only to be shattered by this girl. He wondered why she wasn't spending time with Seraphine on a tranquil day like this one.

"What brings you here, Miss Alaina?" He stopped in front of her. "Are you out for some training? I thought I would end up alone today."

"Yeah, just training. I come every weekend!" She lost her shameful look moments later, but it was replaced by one of irritation. "I'm trying to work on my fire breathing, but I can only blow fireballs. It's annoying."

Cyril found her predicament odd; most fire dragons learnt to breathe a steady stream of their element before knowing how to squeeze it into a ball of volatile energy. "May I see?" he asked. "I am no fire dragon, but I can offer you guidance."

In reality, Cyril almost wanted her gone, but didn't want to appear rude sending her away. She was a charming little dragon anyway, and he was curious as to her problems. Alaina's eyes lit up at his offer. "You want to help me?"

The old dragon snorted. "I am a Guardian. It has been part of my duty to assist all young dragons in need for years. Of course, none of you have been or will ever be as immensely talented as me. My ice is powerful enough to–"

"Teach me!" Alaina shouted. Cyril rolled his eyes, annoyed the start of his tangent had been disrupted.

"Alright, young dragoness." Cyril backed off, giving her the space she required. "Let us see what you can do

Alaina looked to almost forget she couldn't properly deliver a consistent, unwavering stream of fire, her excitement clearly getting the better of her. The Guardian could only sense the growing flames within her for mere moments before she released them upon the world, and she received a face full of ashy smoke as punishment. Spluttering, Alaina turned away from the fumes.

"No, no, extremely wrong," he commented, "and very dangerous to boot. You could die of suffocation with that technique!"

Alaina turned her blackened face to him, eyes teary from the smoke. She grumbled irritably. "Why does it keep happening?"

"You are not concentrating. You are trying to summon – you could say – an uncharged fireball." He put a paw to his jaw. "Whilst fireballs are quick and vicious, young dragoness, fire streams are more elegant. Graceful. They need time."

Wiping her scales off, she cocked her head rightward. "What do I do then?"

He really did want to get back to training himself, but a small part of his mind felt the need to assist her in learning the correct technique. "Stand here." He directed her attention to the sand in front of him. She did as commanded. "Quell your excitement, any feelings you may have, and empty your mind. Close your eyes."

Of her own accord, Alaina took a deep breath and did as she was told without question, determined. A soft smile crossed Cyril's maw. He remembered the time Ignitus had told him about tutoring Spyro in the elements. Somehow, he felt himself already enjoying this. He understood his friend's words now.

"Breathe in," he continued. "Breathe out. Let everything vanish."

Alaina's previous tenseness subsided. Her wings gently descended across her sides. She inhaled and Cyril could feel the faintest spark emerging from within the reaches of her body.

"Do not control the flames within you. Let them be your guide," he said. "Picture a stream of graceful fire."

He saw wispy trails of smoke part with her nostrils and felt the blaze burning brighter. Alaina didn't falter, not even for a second. Something about this young dragoness was special, that he was certain of.

He carefully moved to her side, peering into her determined features. "Now feel that flame wanting to leave. No matter how hard they may try, they need your consent. Raise your chest and feel their warmth make their way to your mouth."

Alaina stood tall, almost prideful. She looked ready. Cyril knew she was.

"Now let it go."

She opened her eyes and let her jaw fall, a wide, aggressive inferno replacing the air in front of her. Cyril was shocked by the intensity of her flames. The inferno danced menacingly as if it had a mind of its own, like a beast. He didn't tell her to stop for he was too astonished, too intrigued, by her use of the element she'd been birthed under. Any breath from any other child was delicate in comparison to her element's ferocity.

If anything, he desired to see more of this intense power. He already wanted to keep her around, and this gave him good reason to train her. Her elemental power was truly amazing.

"...V-very good, Alaina. Your breath is more ferocious than your fireballs."

"I-I did it," she replied, her excitement barely noticeable beneath her exhausted exterior. "Th-thanks, Mr. Cyril..."

Cyril forgot about his own training then and there. "It's almost unnatural how talented you are. Do you mind coming along tomorrow? I would love to see where we could develop this."

"U-uh... Okie dokie. As long as you...teach me more."

"I promise you I will." He smiled faintly. "Now I'd suggest you fly home andhave a well-deserved nap. Tell Seraphine I said hello."

"I will. Thanks for your help, Mr. Cyril..."

As the now educated dragoness removed herself from the arena, the old Guardian of Ice followed her through. Excited as he thought back on the power he'd witnessed, he padded back home.

* * *

His days were once again filled to the brim with study, disturbingly almost like the olden days of the great war when he was scrutinising texts about combat and Guardianship. This time, his research involved the element of fire and ways to project it into different forms. The old teacher inside him was terribly excited to tutor Alaina in different ways, give her access to abilities she never thought possible. He didn't stop to think of giving her anything even resembling a break as he organised schedules.

He hadn't been receiving messages from the council of Warfang lately, and while that gave him some respite, it unnerved him. While his writing was a pain he wanted gone and he now had the time to pore over books, he wondered what was going on. He hoped the courier had made it back with the details. Perhaps they were in disbelief the world's heroes had been slain. Something told him the news was going to flow through the city as though a powerful wave. Maybe they were trying to quell the uproar.

A noise, like that of wood being being torn, disturbed him, interrupted his readings. It was unfamiliar, that he was sure of, yet somehow he had the impression he'd listened to it once before. Back then, he felt that sound had been far more violent, more of an angry crack – a shatter – than a chip.

Cyril lifted himself from his seat behind the desk, shutting his dense book. He looked to Sparx, who casually continued to sit on his shelf. He still hadn't figured out why he hadn't made his way back home yet, but that was beside the question he was about to voice.

"Did you hear that, Sparx?"

Sparx gave him a funny look. He seemed like he was daydreaming. "I didn't hear anything, dude. Are you sure?"

He hummed curiously to himself before going back to work. It had to have been his mind. His age was beginning to get to him it seemed.

But it came again, distinct this time, and he was certain it wasn't just age getting to him. Sparx seemed to hear it clearly too, and there was noticeable concern on his face. Like a pencil snapping, another was issued.

It was only then that he realised what it was.

The egg was hatching. He'd nearly forgotten about it with all this research keeping him busy.

Cyril got up with such force that he almost knocked his desk flying, feeling as if he was about to create several sizeable holes in the floorboards beneath his feet at the rate in which he rushed forward. His speed frightened Sparx, but that didn't bother the ice dragon for a moment.

He'd moved the purple dragon to his bedroom – the one he never seemed to utilise at all. He felt his office had been becoming too crowded, and thinking keeping an unborn child upon a pillar could only end badly, he'd kept them warm in a nest in the back corner, behind the bed, next to the pillar. Hardly a fitting area for the prophesied one, but it seemed to be the warmest location in the house, positioned close to a window on the sun's side.

Cyril nearly sent the door flying off its thick hinges with the power of his barge – his excitement was indescribable, but his worry was far greater in magnitude. He needed to oversee the birth, be certain everything went smoothly. The cracking grew louder; soon it was all he could ponder. There were a surprisingly high number of cases where the child couldn't make it out of their shell at this time. Nobody could interfere with the birth in any way, otherwise risk fatally injuring the fragile hatchling trying desperately to claw their way out.

He reached the purple egg at last. Cracks lined the glistening shell like angry scars, and it wriggled aggressively. He watched in silent apprehension, his mouth covered with a paw, fears something horrible would happen slipping to and fro around his mind. He almost didn't feel Sparx land gently upon his shoulder.

"...Woah."

Cyril didn't respond. He couldn't possibly do so, what with his mind concentrated on the egg.

"Never seen an egg hatch before. So this was what it was like when Spyro hatched..."

He prayed to the Ancestors, hoped they would listen to his pleas for this to work. If this failed, he didn't know what he would do with himself.

It continued to break free, and its efforts progressively began to slow. They were exhausting themselves. A dragon with such extreme amounts of power was nothing if they couldn't pass the very first trial they would ever come face to face with. This was the perhaps the most deciding moment of a dragon's life.

They would live... Or they would die. It was as simple as that, and the now consistent slowing down jerked at his heart. They still had so much to get through.

"Why is it slowing down?" Sparx's nervous voice came forth. Cyril, again, didn't answer. "Cyril?"

He couldn't intervene. Not only did he not want to risk letting this child die, but also playing a part in their demise would've been far too disgusting a thought to handle.

The struggle to make it out stopped. They weren't even halfway. None of the limbs were jutting out yet. Usually hatches were far quicker than this; there was no time for a break, lest they risk not creating an opening for them to breathe through. Dragons hatched differently to other egg-laying species.

He bided his time, but there were no results. Sparx fretfully hovered over the egg. The look of sorrow that replaced the concern on the dragonfly's face pierced like a knife through the Guardian's soul.

He couldn't intervene.

The room stood quiet. The cracking didn't once come forth again. The purple dragon had failed. The realisation sent an ill feeling swirling around his stomach.

He _couldn't_ intervene...

By some stroke of luck, the cracking started again. He breathed a sigh of relief, felt his spirits rise, but he kept an eye glued to the egg in case of failure once more. Fate had other ideas than death for this little dragon. Forcefully, the first leg broke free of the shell, royal purple in colour. If only Spyro and Cynder could've seen this day.

Sparx's face was once again full of joy as the new dragon ripped and tore its shell to mere fragments. A tiny, undeveloped silver horn protruded from the side, a small wing of dazzling purple and grey hues emerged just after it, and a violet eye, sparkling in the sun's illumination, could be spotted through a hole. Awe struck the dragonfly, evident across his face.

Cyril couldn't contain his joy – a wetness trickled down his cheek and the bridge of his snout. The egg broke open then. The purple dragon inside was revealed.

They were more beautiful than he ever could've thought. Cyril truly wished Spyro and Cynder could've been there this day. He could imagine the joyful tears cascading down their faces.

The new purple dragon was born. The new saviour, destined to decimate whatever dark forces arose upon the horizon.

She was a little violet that survived despite the growing struggle, despite what fate had originally desired. Even in times like these – times full of raiding, pillaging, and murdering – a beautiful flower was allowed to germinate amongst the fire and the ashes.

"I think I'll call her Fialka."


	3. Luminescent

Luminescent

This torrent of darkness ripped through settlement after settlement like a plague. Their armies were unstoppable, and even individuals were powerful, from what he'd been told. Sliverclaw had stood undamaged for the twelve years that had passed since Fialka's hatching, however, and he was unsure why. They were a nearly defenceless, harmless town towards the coast. An easy kill for them. They had a sizeable abundance of the Dragon Realms' currency, golden coins, piled up from past trading for such a small settlement, and even that wasn't enticing to them.

What were they really after, other than this unending brutality? That was the question that clouded his mind at the moment. There had to be a motive somewhere in this. Hours of thinking and jotting down notes didn't get him anywhere...

Cyril!"

The Guardian, startled out of his thoughts by the calling of his name and a hollow knock on his door, threw his paws into the air, knocking the ink vial's contents across the page he'd been writing on. He grumbled to himself, shaking his head. At least it hadn't been anything important. If this had happened years ago, when he was still writing important documents...

"C'mon, Cyril. Open up the door! I want dinner and it's late."

"Oh, alright, alright," he said, shambling towards his door. Upon opening it, a small purple dragoness looked fixedly up at him, tapping her foot in frustration. "Be patient, young dragoness. My youth is long past me."

"And I can't wait any longer." She rushed down the hall, perching herself on the table he could see out of the corner of his eye. "Hurry up. I'm starving!"

Cyril paced down the hall – his speed was clearly agonising to the young dragoness – and looked through his icebox. He used his element to keep fresh cuts frozen, perfect because he didn't have the energy to go outside and order something for Fialka, not that there was much to order nowadays. He spun his head around to her for a moment. "You know you shouldn't position yourself on _top_ of the table, correct? I thought I explained that to you yesterday; you'll get your grubby paws on the oak."

"I'm clean today!" she piped up. "I sat around and read books on the elements, like you said."

"A blatant untruth, Fialka." He shook his head, examining rashers of their local, prime piggle. Piggle meat had always been one of his favourites. "You shouldn't be dishonest, unless the situation calls for dishonesty. I watched you leave to chat with Alaina. I can see the dirt on your scales as well."

The purple dragoness hid her mortification behind a smile, rubbing away at her scaly hide. "No, I did _not_..."

"Yes you did. Don't deny it." He scooped the produce up and looked to the window above him, ajar. "You even left the window open. You would make a terrible escape artist, young dragoness. Thankfully, you're not training to be a thief..."

"I... Um... Okay, I'm sorry." She bowed her face. Cyril, once again, shook his head, but a slight smile curled his maw this time.

"Do not fret over it, as long as you dedicate your time to learning about the elements tomorrow. I will tell Alaina you are not available."

"Fine," she murmured. The Guardian, given some respite over her answer, moved to the cast iron pot below the cupboards containing a small variety of kitchen utensils. It wasn't as though he made use of them, however; a dragon's different sharp bits were enough to prepare a meal fit for a lord.

He grasped a flask of old, yellowy fluid and watched as it flowed like honey when he tipped it upside-down. Then, with a wet plop, he dropped the cuts deep into the pot, vanishing at the bottom.

"When will dinner be done?" Fialka cut in.

Cyril sighed. "Patience is a skill you must learn, Fialka. Dinner doesn't cook itself."

"Why are you so slow?"

"Fialka..."

"Oh, can I-"

"Fialka!" He was swift to realise his tone was aggressive. She seemed bewildered when he turned around. "Just... Just be quiet, alright? Dinner will be ready soon. Then you can do whatever you want."

"Even go outside?"

"No!" He put a paw to his forehead. "It's far too dark out there! You don't want to step into an alleyway or that damned forest."

Fialka planted her eyes on the table. She seemed more irritated she couldn't take off and perform the things she desired than upset she was yelled at. "I can take care of myself, you know..."

Cyril could only shake his head for what was probably the six hundredth time, wondering why the Ancestors couldn't have given him somebody as polite and selfless as Spyro. His royal ancestry, gazing down upon him, probably thought him stupid for taking in such a little rascal.

The pot bubbled and the meat broiled, steaming. He grabbed two dishes from the cupboard above him and raised the cuts with a long pair of iron tongs. Not in the mood for boiling anything else, he allowed the flames to die away and served the meal to the dragoness.

She opened her mouth again. "What's wrong with the forest?"

He turned around, serving his own meal. "Children have chased each other in there before, in older times, but they never returned. We couldn't have the same happening to you now, could we?"

"Sounds _spooky._ " She smirked. It was almost as though she'd forgotten she was yelled at a few minutes ago.

"It is not a matter to be joked about," he said as he lifted his own plate, shuffling towards his office. He stopped a moment later. "Where's Sparx right now?"

"I dunno where Uncle Sparx is," she called back. "He's probably out with Nivia. He's been spending a lot of time with her. I wish he was here more often... Where are you going?"

He exhaled. "To my office. I have things to do."

Fialka didn't say another word as he entered his office; the low sigh she issued barely met Cyril's eardrums. He laid his oily meal beside his papers, sat down, and cleared away the sopping page. Grabbing a new ink vial, he began to write whatever came to mind once again.

* * *

Slowly blossoming over opaque hills and rocky outcroppings, the light of a new day painted Sliverclaw in a coat of faint gold. The marketplace shifted even at this time – it was unusual for a town of small numbers – but considering the keepers of the various stalls had initiated their huge sale and festival for the winter, the White Rose, it was no wonder why. Cyril didn't generally partake in the festivities; there was no time for little games and buying inexpensive goods. Today, however, he'd been persuaded by an eager purple dragoness and a growing fire dragoness to escort them. He hadn't a clue where they desired to go first.

"Hello? Earth to Cyril?" Alaina intervened with his thoughts. He turned his head. "Off in dreamland?"

"What is it?"

She shook her head in irritation. "You didn't hear a word of what I just said, isn't that right, you bag of scales?"

"I apologise. I've been focused on other things. What did you say?"

Fialka shrugged innocently. "It doesn't matter. Let's go, Alaina!"

The two scampered off before he could get the first syllable of their names out. Off to entertain themselves, no doubt, not that there would be much to do now. None of the merchants had the will to create something magnificent, but from the things he knew this was supposedly tradition in Sliverclaw. It wasn't like an old, exhausted soul like him could do a thing about them running off. He rolled his eyes, deciding to wander down the cobblestone pathway on his lonesome.

It was only when he was alone and not consumed by his deep thoughts that he noticed how overcrowded the main street was. More than half the townsfolk had been hidden away for some time, but now they had unearthed themselves from their humble little cottages. A rainbow of differing hues moved past and toward him, scaled and furry creatures packaged around flashy stalls. He peered behind himself, toward his house on the hill far from him, and thought about heading back.

Maybe he could use today to lose himself a little. He never participated, and if he kept up his absence he'd never get a chance. Plus, as one of the very few remaining Guardians – perhaps _the_ last – it'd be best if he tried to keep a presence, even if it was around so few people. His old friend Seraphine still told him to soak in the outdoors more.

Loosening up his weary bones, he strode into the crowd and took in the sights. It was difficult to focus with the disorganised mass of creatures rushing about. He found the square quiet, however, in spite of the bustle. Only the occasional murmur met his ear holes. There was talk amongst them of how cities off the coast had been ravaged, even the great Ornhold, which had carried the biggest, greatest military the world had ever seen. He wasn't sure whether to believe it, but the situation told him the events were true. Something like that could happen within twelve years of the purple dragon hatching.

Obviously the people were trying to act normal for the festival, but a huge, gaping maw of fear had swallowed everyone's thoughts and their usually happy conversations. Usually he tried to ignore the bad and focus on things that would land Sliverclaw in a more positive position, but even he shivered in dread. Those positive things never came to him anymore, so what was the point in trying to think about them?

He set his sights upon a stall. It was dingy, wooden thing, torn by forces unknown – much like the rest of the stalls, he now realised, that weren't kept in good shape either – but a youngster waited eagerly behind it. Cyril felt bad for him. The shoddy jugs were still full.

He had to nearly shove his way through the crowd. He forced the hides of several people away from him, receiving a few glares, before reaching the tiny mole waiting behind his stall. The thin boy lifted his head, wiping at his spectacles with a grimy rag.

"Hello." The mole leaned over his rotting desk. "Want some lemonade? Only one gold piece."

The Guardian studied the bubbling fluid and licked the tip of his maw. He was parched, and this surely would quench his thirst. "Alright, uh..." He checked for the satchel he'd taken in case the girls desired something and found it missing. He put a paw to his forehead. "I apologise. I...forgot my money."

"Oh, that's okay," the boy said. "Have a free one on me, old man."

Cyril eyed the thin mole and shook his head as he poured a cup. "No, certainly not. I can't just steal your product like this. You look as though you need the money, if I'm being honest."

"Well, yeah, a bit. Mum kinda...moved somewhere else for a while. She left me here." He straightened his glasses. "I just try to make a profit off lemonade. I have a lemon tree out the back. It's kinda dying, though, considering the drought..."

"And you haven't done anything to find her or a potential parent?" he asked. "I am sure somebody in Sliverclaw would be willing to take you in.. The costs of residing here are not high, I must say. Although, maybe the people are a little hesitant right now..."

The boy flashed him a slight grin. "No, no, I have. But I prefer living on my own. Like you said, the prices here are pretty cheap. It's not that hard to get around."

Something remained suspiciously unclear to the Guardian about the boy. "Well, it would be for the greater good if you found comfort in a parent. Or if you are not enrolled in our local academy, I would at least expect you to join the other few children there. You are no dragon, but your small claws could perhaps be put to work in the study of engineering."

The mole sighed. "I'm not really one for any of that stereotyping crap, but thanks for the suggestion. The academy's pretty empty now and I'm not sure if I would even get the chance to do anything of the kind... Now, do you want a cup or not?"

Cyril decided he best not push the issue further, else delve into what appeared to be dangerous territory. He could search for the facts to these circumstances at a later date. "...Alright, lad. Let's see if your lemonade is as strange as your situation."

The mole muttered something incoherent about old people and poured the dragon a glass of fizzy drink. Cyril wrapped his paw around it, examined its contents for a moment, and didn't find anything mysterious about it. Just a normal cup of refreshing lemonade. Its taste was exquisite, he found, especially for such a scruffy mole and a dying lemon tree.

"Rather pleasant, I must say," he complimented. "I would take another, but..."

An unpleasant ringing, like that of a demon wailing, pierced the old Guardian's eardrums. The harsh chime of the clock tower's bell screamed bloody murder. He directed his attention toward the commotion and saw a black plume flickering with fiery amber rise into the air. Then came another wicked explosion.

He dropped his cup and didn't hear it shatter or the mole yell after him as he sprinted off as swiftly as his creaking bones could carry him. The town square was this creature's target, he realised. Whatever it was, he was bent on halting it before it caused further damage.

Cyril ground to a halt as he reached his destination, summing up the situation. Stalls lay in splintered flaming piles, the stone water fountain was in shambles, and the fire spread relentlessly. People ran and screamed and cried around guards already endeavouring to stop the threat in the centre and to put out the buildings ablaze. Three lay dead, cold corpses bleeding out.

He caught an eyeful of the invader, and just as it'd been described to him, he saw the black blob. It moved so fast he couldn't even detect a body shape, turning another stall to splinters. He was quick to join the fray; the guards had been slacking, it seemed.

The shadowy blob seemed to notice him by the way its milky eyes connected with his. It brought a fist formed with its own darkness and threw it into the ground. The ground shook and a black wave that curled outwards, a pulse of tenebrous energy, knocked the other guards off their feet. He couldn't tell if they were dead when they fell as he made a manoeuvre to fly over it. Cyril realised he was alone in this battle; it was after him and he was unsure why.

It didn't say a word as it approached, sickle sword hanging against its side, grinding against the stone. There was no fury or passion in the way it ambled towards him, and the screaming and crying around him made the peacefulness excruciating to watch. He wondered if it could even speak. He stood corrected after mere seconds when the darkness didn't encroach.

"Guardian of Ice," it began, its tone shockingly baritone for its small, meek shape. The figure resembled a cheetah in stature without the constant leaping about, but there were no ears or tail to speak of. Shadowy discharge from the creature's robe merged with the floor as it drifted towards Cyril, staining the cobblestone black. "Your spy will die. Our leader shall know how he deceived us when I make my way back. I will be rewarded."

Cyril swallowed. He'd always had a feeling this S.K. would finally meet their end through him somehow. This seemed to be it. "What do you mean _spy_?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Don't try to deny it, Guardian of Ice." The creature twirled the blade in its paws. It seemed a natural with it. The toothed edge oozed with the scarlet of the dead. "I'm here to look into matters and then leave. Don't try to stop me. You'll only end up like the rest of your incompetent guards."

"Oh, c'mon, who blew up the food cart?" a small voice interrupted Cyril before he could loose a retort. He whipped his head around, sure the area had been clear earlier, only to find an ignorant Fialka. Alaina was following closely behind her, but stopped immediately when she realised the situation. "Did you fire dragons- mmph!"

Alaina shoved a paw straight into the smaller dragon's mouth. Cyril gestured towards them, mouthing, 'Leave.' She tried to do so swiftly, to get Fialka out of harm. Even Fialka was shocked to see the place in shambles, as oblivious as she seemed to the world.

The figure cackled lowly. "I've changed my mind." It raised a black limb; it flashed a milky white. Tendrils rose in the corner of Cyril's eye, noiseless. They covered every pathway and formed a dome over their heads. Miraculously, light shined through the darkness around them. "Our leader would surely appreciate a gift like this. All grown up. So...strong. The perfect vessel."

"What do you speak of, you arrogant basket case?" Cyril glared through it with a gaze as keen as daggers. It didn't care. "I have not a clue of what you are talking about."

"He made us out to be primitive, said this kind of science was impossible. He's the stupid one. It's impossible...unless we have a vessel. And this purple dragoness is now perfect. Our leader only needs to know that you have no aetherial cannon and then we will storm this place. We must thank you for raising her well."

The Guardian wanted to move, to defend her, but he dared not. He awaited the opportunity to strike. "Why didn't you kill her on the train?" he asked instead.

The befuddlement on Fialka's face was evident, even with a paw over her mouth, when he glanced at her. He hadn't told her yet. It had never mattered.

"We can't raise a child, Guardian of Ice. We have no choice but to destroy any weakling in our path. Infants feed off of our darkness and... I will assure you the sight isn't a pretty one. I'm not here to talk about myself, though. Let me have her and I'll leave this place alone."

He shook his head. "You must think me an imbecile. You have burned enough as is." He stopped to check if the guards were putting out the fires. He found their bodies strewn about the square, barely recognisable. He knew Sliverclaw was burning around him; he cursed at himself for being unable to stop it. It only fueled his ambition. "Giving her away is suicide."

"Then I have no choice."

A black streak jolted towards him and Cyril barely had a moment to raise his paw in defence. Scales cleaved off, he grunted. The speed at which the creature moved was seemingly impossible, the fury behind the blade unstoppable. The Ancestors gave birth to something as powerful as this?

Another powerful cleave; he had time to summon his element and halted the strike with a shield of ice.

Had the Ancestors gone insane?

"There's no point, Guardian of Ice," the figure said, swinging overhead. "You've grown old."

He barged forward, knocking his adversary off balance. It was swift to recover. He didn't let himself succumb to the taunting. The world vanished and his attention was focused on the target. He was prepared for anything.

Yet the figure shocked him by pegging the blade forward. It spun like a turbine and would've mounted itself in his skull had he not realised the figure's intentions. It struck his horn as he crouched and continued to soar. He regained focus, lashing out upon his target. His efforts were stopped once more.

"You don't have the skill anymore. You are not a warrior."

Cyril grunted again but in anger. He raised his fist, only to find one in his mouth. Its speed outmatched his by miles. Staggering, he lifted his shield to block yet another punch. It shattered underneath the blow.

"You never should have become a Guardian."

He wanted to yell out, but the agony stopped him from doing so. He was losing himself. Instead, he tried to raise the ice within him and project it into a torrent, but a sharp pain jolted through his spine. He screamed like he never had before.

The creature had snapped their fingers, and the sword had come flying back. Cyril's body oozed red. It had been so long since he had bled. He remembered the time an ape's blade had been driven into his spine. He thought he heard Fialka shout, but it was unclear beneath his sudden loss of hearing.

A paw met his jaw and brought him toppling down. It was like his first time fighting again. Orange flashed in his eyes. Its source was unmistakable. He heard his opponent shout this time, and he heard the agony in the creature's voice as clear as water.

Cyril struggled to shift his gaze upward even slightly, pain lancing across his body. He got a glance – there stood a being of luminescent white, melting like they were made of the vapour the guards were covered in. He thought he perceived a startled gasp from one of the dragonesses, but it could've been his own ragged panting. The white made a swift retreat and, with another one of its motions, drew the sword back out of Cyril's spine. The dragon once again doubled over.

In spite of the pain, he made it to his feet once more, able to see his surroundings in greater clarity again. Wicked sharp, he knew the blade was, but clearly magical; he knew enough to know it paralysed the target as soon as it found its mark. These Varlends were as powerful as they'd made themselves out to be. Where had they learnt spells of this calibre?

Another cry cut his thoughts short and he knew he needn't dawdle. The thick wall of shadows dissipated, the now white Varlend clutching its body as one more fireball burst beside it. He rushed forth and, with a lowered head, slammed his horns and body weight into it. It blasted off, its fall broken quickly by the cobblestone and heaped timber. Its blade clattered to the ground, unmoving, in defeat. The creature didn't move again. Through his watery eyes, he couldn't tell if it was still respiring.

Alaina seemed shocked when he peered at her, but she cast him a weak smile and itched at her forehead scales. He returned it before moving toward the unconscious figure. Something had burned up in her element, he was certain. Perhaps fire was a weakness? It seemed strange that they would utilise fire if it turned them into the pale thing before him.

He inspected the body; minor cuts and burns, but otherwise fine. They didn't seem to pose a threat unconscious like this.

"Are you okay, Cyril?" Alaina asked. He nodded and waved her off. His back flared, but he could absorb his stock of spirit gems later.

"Would you take Fialka back home? I need to deal with the situation here."

Fialka's curiosity knew no bounds, however. "What the hell even is that thing? It was all shadowy and stuff, but then it... And what was this about me and the-"

"I'll inform you later. Let Alaina walk you home, Fialka."

People wandered back into the area, scared out of their minds, staring at Cyril. Somebody sounded like they were screaming about the fires and the dead guards, but it was lost to the Guardian's eardrums. Alaina walked off with the purple dragon in tow and left him, more or less, to his own devices. Fialka looked as though she was limping, but a minor injury wasn't anything to worry over. She'd dealt with worse in training and come out okay.

If this figure couldn't use their black magic anymore, considering the aura had been vaporised, then maybe imprisonment was in order. He needed information...

He licked his maw as he formulated a plan. It was about time he figured out if the one called S.K. was telling the truth. For now, however, he decided he best sort out the destruction.

* * *

It'd taken a great deal of persuasion to get the bare cellar built beneath his house. Nobody wanted to use the materials when there were hardly any supplies left, and nobody would head into the forest for fear of being stalked and killed. His final few coins, and empty promises and lies were what it took for the local builder and his wife to construct it as quickly as they had – within a week. If they'd known what he was really going to do with it, they wouldn't have agreed to the risky proposition at all.

The wood was a velvety red, odd compared to the earthier texture upstairs, and a small iron cell stood in the corner, imposing despite its stature. The prisoner was seated inside of it, legs crossed, lifeless in the way it didn't breathe. Cyril could tell it was still alive, though. Those milky eyes glared knives into his scales. There was no prison in Sliverclaw, so he'd had to take matters into his own claws.

It seemed mad to be contained within a cramped space like this. Fialka was astonished when he'd allowed the creature to move into her bedroom, but she ended up finding the flannelette cushions in the corner of his office as comfortable as her bed. Thankfully, the thing hadn't torn anything down in fury. He'd boarded up the window too.

But its time within her room was over; she certainly was joyful to get it back, and he was more so, the risks now nullified. He was even shocked by how calmly the chained creature walked to the cell with him.

"Have you asked for its name yet?"

He turned to find Fialka behind him. She'd accepted him quickly, although was almost upset she was never able to chat with the thing. He told her it was dangerous, but she didn't seem to mind the risks.

"Why would I do that? It's an animal, Fialka."

"M.R.. And I'm no _it_ or _animal._ I'm male." He – apparently – was angered by the fact Cyril was so condescending.

Cyril stepped forward, scratching his chin area. "Initials... Why do you use them, M.R.? Do you have a proper name?"

"That _is_ my proper name," he said. He put a white paw against his forehead. "We're assigned initials at birth. Two or three letters, occasionally numbers, because there's too many of us to give what you would call _proper names_."

"M.R..." Fialka itched her jaw. "I'm gonna call you Mister! Because, you know, M and R together make-"

"I'm well aware," he cut her off. "Would the both of you leave me alone, or at least finish me off so I'm not left to rot by the likes of you? I'm not going to tell you anything important."

Cyril stared his pale form over, ignoring his simple request. "You were enveloped in shadows earlier. You seemed more formidable with that magic. But fire set something of yours ablaze, rendering your magic null. What happened?"

Mister had the look of somebody who knew nobody would listen to him. Not even Fialka, who usually followed instructions from most, made an effort to move, instead thoughtlessly gazing into the new floorboards beneath her. Cyril was still astonished the builder of this new cellar hadn't noticed the creature hiding away in his old bedroom. Maybe he did but didn't bother to say anything. Everyone thought him peculiar anyhow.

"You're not going to leave me alone. Stupid to believe you had any kindness, Guardian of Ice." Mister sighed. "It's a natural cloak – a shade cloak, we call it. It's powerful; but very flammable, as you've clearly taken note of. It'll end up growing back in a few years' time. And before you ask, no, you do _not_ have the firepower to take down our armies."

"Heh, he said _fire_ power." Fialka grinned suddenly. "That's funny."

"Extremely," Mister retorted, glaring back with his white eyes. His features were difficult to make out because of his abnormal colour. "Any more questions? I have one. Can I have that bed back?"

Cyril, again, disregarded his words. "Are you sure you haven't told me anything important? I mean, the growing back part of your explanation seemed crucial."

"No, it's not," he said. "This island's doomed within a year or two and there's nothing anybody can do to stop it. I've served my time and now it's finally at an end... You might as well kill me. I'm not useful to you in any way."

"We'll see about that." This information wasn't new to the Guardian. He'd been expecting the raids to approach them. He'd come to the conclusion many times now that there wasn't a way to achieve victory. Sometimes he'd thought more positively, yet in reality he had no clue what to do about any of this.

Had Fialka just been a false sense of hope? Of determination?

"Why would the Ancestors send you here...?"

"To destroy this world," Mister started. Cyril looked over at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. Even Fialka was intrigued, and she'd been idly scratching away at her jaw, minding her own business. "Create a new one. Set out to accomplish what the Dark Master failed. The Ancestors don't want to provide for you anymore. Your devotion simply isn't enough anymore, and with less and less people appreciating them, they are getting mad. This world, Guardian of Ice, is... Well, for lack of a better term, it's fucked."

Cyril didn't believe him for a second. Why would the Ancestors, who had loved all life for all eternity, suddenly change their mind and plunge a dagger into the heart of the world?

"I can tell you don't believe me. But know that it is true. We are not some new _ancient evil_ , as a lot of you think. In fact, to me, we're not evil at all, nor are we good. We are just here to turn this world to ruin, by the request of higher beings. We don't regret anything we've ever done."

He shook his head. This wasn't true.

"The bloody murder? The arson? Entertainment, as you may know. Not for us, however. The Ancestors. Your spy has been wrong on so many things. In fact, he may just be a double agent now that I think about it. You have nobody to help you."

This wasn't true at all.

"And no, this isn't important to me. You might as well know. It's not going to matter in the end-"

"Quiet!" Cyril yelled. Fialka looked at him apprehensively. "Enough. Keep your falsehoods to yourself, worm. Nothing you say is true."

Mister didn't speak again, but his unnerving gaze never left Cyril's. The Guardian exhaled. He could still stop this. He knew it. And nothing the Varlend said was true...

He. Could. Stop. _This_...

No, he couldn't. His mind shifted between perspectives, unending.

His devotion couldn't have been for nothing. They wouldn't change like that...

Maybe their beliefs had changed. If even his religion was against him...

What could he do?

* * *

"I really need to confess, Cyril..."

The Guardian looked at Sera, who casually sipped at her tea. It was every week she came over. Fialka was always happy to see Alaina, but the pair of almost-sisters spoke everyday, so it wasn't like today was special for her, unlike him. He always looked forward to these days; it was a chance to speak to somebody other than the kid and to somebody who actually understood him. Every other dragon in Sliverclaw either found him too ancient or too strange.

He, like her, sipped at a tiny cup of tea. Everybody used to go on about how drinking tea was odd for a dragon, but he had never really minded those who gossiped about him. It was of no use looking into such petty matters. They didn't now. Nobody had time for such things. It wasn't worth wasting time on idiotic things like that. "What is it?

"You know when I helped you sort out your collection of books?"

"You did do that, yes. I remember." He cocked his head rightward. "What about it?"

Sera looked to her side, towards the arched window on the opposite side of the room. Fialka was outside, chatting away with Alaina upon a flimsy wooden bench. "Well, uh... I saw those letters you have. You know, the ones from that shadow person? I...couldn't help snooping about. I'm sorry. But...why haven't you told anyone about those?"

"Well, I did leave them out in the open," he admitted. He didn't really mind, if he was being honest. He'd half expected her to find them, leaving them on his desk like he did. "And I felt I would have sparked more controversy had I told anyone. Sliverclaw is still on edge regarding those matters. Nobody would be happy to find out we have a supposed spy working in their midst if we cannot trust them fully, after the destruction during the festival especially. Everyone I have seen since that day is scared out of their minds. They know it's coming, and fast. I think they are beginning to go insane. It's like the war all over again, Sera."

"Everyone's complaining over that meeting earlier this week. The rations are justified... You had that cellar built for that shadow person down there, right? To gather information?"

"My, my, you really have been sneaking about my home." He smirked weakly. "I trust you to not tell anybody. Nobody can know."

"Yeah, I realise that now. That's not really what I want to talk about, though. Your letters kept going on about an 'aether cannon'. An aetherial cannon, you and that S.K. probably meant. That science isn't impossible."

He raised a brow in surprise. "The prisoner has been pretty quiet but it did talk about that science when it came here. What do you know about it?"

"Let me start from the beginning." She cleared her throat quietly. "I was a part of the war effort and was placed under the seventh engineer division. Now, you might think only moles went in there, but I was an exception. I was fresh out of the Warfang academy and I was a top student. The teachers advised I join the war as an engineer, and after a bit of being made a laughing stock, they let me in. No one laughed at me again when I showed them the weapons I could craft."

"It was in our division's workshop that we came up with the plans for a cannon that could fire aether," she continued. "Unfortunately, to do anything of the sort, we would still need a purple dragon to power it, and thus the completed cannon was never used. It was destroyed by the Dark Master's armies in the end, though. It's ironic being destroyed by your own power source."

Cyril pondered over her words. "If you still needed the purple dragon to utilise such a weapon, then why would you construct one? The purple dragons don't need a vessel to fire from."

"This is different, Cyril. A concentrated beam that can last for hours compared to moments, and the amount of power it discharges can be tampered with manually. The original was built as of Ignitus' secret orders in case Spyro was unsuccessful and we could recover his body, but we never needed it and, as I just said, it was destroyed. You only have to put the dragon inside and it... _consumes_ their energy."

"That sounds painful," Cyril said, frowning. Seraphine exhaled.

"That would _kill_ the dragon inside if they weren't already dead. A living vessel is stronger than a dead one, though. But anyway... Well, you must know what I'm trying to say."

"I know what you're getting at." He looked outside again. Somehow, even he couldn't see such a young, cheerful dragoness reduced to living ammunition. "A last resort. You want to construct one again."

"No, I don't want to build one again," she answered, "but I would be willing to if you gave me the word. I highly doubt we could burn them all with the numbers we have, so this may be our only shot at stopping them. It's your call, Cyril. We wouldn't be able to tell anyone what it is in case Fialka finds out. She can't know."

"I already do enough hiding myself, so that's no issue." He almost wanted to chuckle. "But...you are correct."

Twelve more years of raiding and growing had passed for the Varlends. Their armies were too large to combat with an ordinary source. They already covered most of the Dragon Realms, from what he knew from the occasional courier. They were in the centre of the conflict, a small dot of white amongst a tide of black. He could only imagine the state the rest of the world was in.

"We cannot emerge victorious with the numbers we have now," he continued. "It's simply implausible... Our numbers are nothing compared to an island of Varlends. Last I checked, every guard was murdered in that single attack on the festival."

Seraphine gasped. "It was really _that_ bad? I thought it was only minor property damage and a few casualties!"

"I'm afraid not." He set his cup down, sighing. "There weren't that many to begin with. The only fighters we have left are Fialka, Alaina, myself...and you, if you still can. Perhaps Jedrek if our situation hadn't driven him to insanity. Alaina says you can at least hold your own."

"I doubt it," she said. "Three people that can fight, two of them kids... What about the rest of the kids that were learning in the academy? That class was pretty full, wasn't it, or I was just not paying enough attention?"

"Many of the parents had their children drop out, not wanting them to become warriors and succumb within seconds to the Red Phoenix. Shameful, I will add." Downheartedly, he pushed his tea away from him. "Understandable? That too."

"Then is there really a choice in what we should do?" she asked him. He didn't know if he wanted to try anymore. Just talking about these things made him realise it was pointless. Even if they did build a cannon, it would only last a few hours. That wasn't enough to crush millions of these parasites.

"Should we even try?"

Sera was taken aback. She seemed about to respond, but thought about it for a moment. "Um, w-well... Look, I know it sounds pointless, but maybe we should go down fighting. Cripple them, at least, in case another country can deal with this. And maybe I can perfect the design as well, make it last longer..."

"How would you obtain the materials for such a weapon. We can't go anywhere. It's far too risky."

She gazed deep into her teacup for a moment before looking back up at him. He hadn't peered at her in a while; her smiley nature had faded completely. Never had he seen her solemn before.

"That old arena has everything we need. Old mechanical bits and bobs, metal, you name it. The framework and wiring take a long time to do and need very precise work and lots of testing, but it wouldn't be hard to get an adjustable skeleton up. It was always finding a purple dragon that was the issue, but she's here now. I just need your permission to dig up all the old arena traps and stuff."

Cyril closed his eyes and sighed again. He still felt no point in all this.

And using Fialka as a weapon? Killing her? Sure, she was training to become a weapon against the Varlends – a probably useless one at that – but a _literal_ weapon? That went against every thought he had.

"I know you still think we shouldn't bother, and... and putting Fialka into such a thing is just wrong. But if I can perfect the design, maybe I can keep her from dying _and_ keep it running, even send the plans elsewhere in case a purple dragon is born elsewhere, even if theirs little to no chance of that happening... I mean, they say when there's a will, there's a way, and I do have the will..."

"I...just don't know, Seraphine..."

"We have to try," she reaffirmed. "There's no point waiting here until the end. I don't think I'll survive this, or any of us for that matter, but we need to do something to stop this. We've been abandoned and we don't have a choice."

"I..."

"Please."

She was right. Something had to be done, even if they were killed in the process. Even if it meant sacrificing Fialka. She was just going to die. She was the purple dragon, but even purple dragons could die, just like Malefor and Spyro had. Putting her to use was far better than leaving her to be taken by the Red Phoenix, who apparently had their own aetherial cannon. He was sure it was nothing like what Sera could build, but even the faint spark of hope they had now would be stamped out if they stole her.

Fialka was going to die. Sera was going to die. Alaina, the town, himself. He needed to accept that now. But if something was done to cripple the Varlends he could hopefully go out feeling as though he'd done something.

This was just the right thing to do. Fialka couldn't object. It was not her choice to make.

"Do it. For the fate of us, Sliverclaw, and the world, do it."


	4. Nothing More

Nothing More

" _Cyril..."_

" _Later."_

 _Fialka turned away, saddened. It was always like this. She'd ask him about her parents, he'd always dismiss her. This night, he'd found her strolling about the streets, asking strangers about her parents. She already knew her father was the previous purple dragon, and her mother was the former general of the Dark Master's armies, but she had no clue of their whereabouts. Cyril would've thought she'd already found out, yet not one of the townsfolk had been willing to tell the story._

 _A young dragon couple, probably in their twenties, stood before the two, their expressions one of shock and fear. That was who she'd approached most recently. When he turned to look at them again, they slammed the door shut, vanishing inside. As impolite and strange as it was, Cyril expected it. They'd all done it when he dashed around trying to find her amongst the darkness._

" _Why can't you just tell me? Why can't_ anyone _tell me?"_

 _Telling her would only worsen her training. She was already disobedient enough as is. He didn't need her having nightmares of her dead parents on a train as well._

" _What is wrong with you all?!"_

" _Fialka, that's enough for one night. We're going home."_

" _Cyril, for fuck's-"_

" _We are_ going _home," he reaffirmed. Sure, he'd expected this, and she did have a right to know, but it was better this way. The world was better off this way. "You really should not be using such language either. It's inappropriate, especially out here."_

" _Who the fuck is going to hear me out here at night?"_

" _The entire town if you don't keep your voice down," he said. "Now hurry up. Let's go."_

 _Fialka grumbled, unmoving. A tear of rain dripped onto the Guardian's forehead. He felt himself growing annoyed, not that he already wasn't._

" _Fialka, it's starting to rain. And you have training tomorrow."_

 _She groaned again, turning away from him. She seated herself on the cobblestone. He didn't have time for this. By the Ancestors, it was two o'clock in the morning._

" _Well, alright then. Suit yourself." He started pacing away, hoping she'd catch up. She didn't move an inch. "You can sleep out here tonight then until you decide to come back. And tomorrow morning, you can apologise to all the people you've disturbed."_

 _The downpour grew heavier swiftly. Fialka remained still. A low whimper filled the air._

 _She'd learn to cope with not knowing eventually. She needed to train. That was all. That was all she was good for at the moment. Nothing more._

 _Cyril walked away._

* * *

He found himself buried in his memories often nowadays, perhaps for the fact there wasn't much time left. Sometimes he regretted what he'd done, sometimes he agreed with it, and sometimes he simply didn't feel a thing. Two years ago had been one of those times. It wasn't that he was emotionless, but only that he didn't know what to feel. In between two sides, he always felt. The side that remained justified, and the side that was immoral.

He began to focus on Fialka in front of him, rather than sticking to his thoughts. Her claws were daggers, her fangs like a viper's. She cleaved through the golems, smashed them, watched them evaporate under the intensity of her elements. She kicked up sand whichever way she went, and even that was used against the golems, blinding their crystalline eye sockets. She favoured her lightning; it zipped about the battlefield, arcing and cracking.

Cyril had insisted Fialka use the arena for her training, even while the removal of the traps was occurring. Seraphine worked quickly after lining off a section for the purple dragoness to utilise. Fortunately, it was only the old metallic traps and wiring being extracted from the area, so Sliverclaw's once-world-renowned arena would continue to stand. He liked the decrepit structure too much for it to be torn down forever. It served a good purpose, and that was for any and all training. As long as the Red Phoenix didn't reduce it to rubble.

He still couldn't shake the fear a problem would arise or a task wouldn't go smoothly, whether the parts required were missing, the construction was completed incorrectly, or Fialka realised she was to be used as nothing but ammunition.

He was more anxious over the latter. It seemed the most likely of the three. He had a feeling something was always gazing at him. The Varlends, probably. They had their scouts.

"She's...really gotten good, Cyril," a voice spoke beside him. He turned to Alaina. "It still surprises me how you taught her to beat your golems up so quickly. Six years and already a master."

"You were a swift learner as well, Alaina." A soft smile played on his maw. "You were also rather obedient, unlike her, but it was far less difficult to straighten her out a bit than I believed at first. Of course, she still hurries off when she's done here. Joining you, I presume."

Alaina averted her gaze for a moment. "Heh, well, you're right. She follows me around like a pet. Never wants to leave my side. I shouldn't really be comparing somebody like her to a pet, though."

"Seraphine has told me of your inseparable bond a fair few times," he said. "'Those two are like sisters,' she always says."

"She tells me the same. When Fialka first saw me, she was only a week old, and she smiled and laughed and tried to grab at me. It was like she knew we would become good friends, despite her age. I never forgot the way she looked then." Alaina smiled as she reminisced on the past.

Cyril had never forgotten either. Youthful, happy eyes, and a desire to wish happiness upon everyone. He wished she and everyone could stay as innocent as that forever. No one would have to be thrown into turmoil that way.

"Hey, what is Gran getting out of the arena?" the dragoness asked seconds later. "Is she building things again? She told me stories about how she was an engineer when she was about my age. I haven't seen her live up to her tales until now."

"I can certainly say she knows exactly what she's doing, in spite of her inexperience over the years." He could spot sweat beading on her forehead, even from his distance, yet she swung her paws with determination. Even Sera's old age wouldn't halt her fast progress.

"What _is_ she building with that stuff?"

"Um... Just defence mechanisms." The truth, he realised, but not the entire story. "We'll need equipment if we are to stop this menace."

She nodded, oblivious. "Makes sense. Not sure what you see in that, though. Other than that one blob you keep in your _cellar_ ," she added, "there hasn't been any attacks or anything, right?"

He assumed Fialka told her. It was only a matter of time before she allowed something to slip through her maw. He wondered if she knew about the letters too. As long as she didn't find out...

"You always looked troubled, Cyril. Why is that?"

He straightened his features. "No, I'm nothing of the sort. Just...worried about the future of our settlement. I'm sure all will be fine once we've prepared the correct fortifications, however. Nothing will penetrate Sera's devices."

Even for a usually bouncy and cheerful dragoness, Alaina seemed doubtful, like she'd already accepted the fate they were apparently destined to, according to Mister, but she didn't say anything about it. Her expression was too transparent to hide her feelings, though. "I guess we'll see what she builds with the steel here. Something big and powerful, hopefully.

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," he said. "I doubt we have the resources or time to build something powerful. I do hope our weaponry will be enough. But, if it comes to it, I believe Warfang still stands. Nothing has ever made it past the fortifications there and into the residential areas."

"Do you really think a few weapons will stop them?"

He was certain that the chances of that happening with even an aetherial cannon were slim.

"I don't," she said. "Even I was scared of that single blob thing and I _know_ I can fight. I...froze up. I should've been fighting."

"You protected Fialka, and it was only the first real battle you've seen. It's understandable that you would freeze up in fear like that. And you _did_ shoot the fireball that saved me."

Her culpable expression worsened despite his complimenting. "I still could've done something more. It's like you trained me for no reason..."

"You'll do better next time, I assure you. Let's take this small victory for now and hopefully pull off more in due time. That's beside the point, however. I hope our weaponry will be powerful enough, but I...I don't know enough to say for sure. The Red Phoenix is barbaric, vicious and intelligent. There's far too many... Well, I don't know enough to say anything yet."

"I don't know if we'll even end up being here to be attacked." Alaina exhaled. "We might just end up starving or dying of thirst. Our supplies are growing more and more limited. Nobody wants to hunt either, what with those blobs running around everywhere. We've only got half a year left on the non-perishable rations we have, maybe a full year if we completely throw comfort aside..."

Never did he see her so lost. It was unlike her to not be a bundle of laughs, teasing, and joy. Her comments did prove to be true, though.

"I didn't know you paid attention to such matters." He wasn't surprised; she'd grown into this uneasy dragoness. Being around a consistent threat of death didn't help with that at all, but he'd never seen her this worried over the potential end barrelling towards them. "You are correct. We're going to have to assign jobs to the townsfolk that aren't completely petrified. If it means risking our lives to live somewhat longer, then so be it."

"Well, I hope those people end up okay, whoever they are. Anyway, I'm gonna go home, I think. Gonna prepare a little meal for Gran. Let Fialka have a break too. She's looking pretty sweaty over there."

"Oh, I'm sure she can keep going." He chuckled faintly. Her words were true; Fialka's body shined with perspiration as if the sun had touched her. "She's only furthering her endurance. Give her a few more moments."

"She's a purple dragon, yes, but she shouldn't be overworked, even with the blobs around. Let her have a bit of time off." Alaina turned around and stepped away from the Guardian.

"Anyway, see ya, Cyril."

He bowed his head back and she left him. As soon as her form vanished behind the gates, Fialka stopped striking the golems and rushed up to the Guardian, panting breathlessly.

"Where's she going? Did she say my moves were cool?"

"Back home, and she said you were talented, yes. Get back to training, young dragoness."

She breathed an exhausted sigh. "But I'm tired..."

"I am sure an extra five minutes won't hurt you. You're going to need every last second to improve your prowess in combat. I will turn you into a weapon before you know it." He realised his word choice was terrible, but Fialka was none the wiser.

"Ugh, fine." She glared at him, but he paid no attention to her irritation. All this training was to spare her life from becoming ammunition for a cannon after all. She just couldn't know that. After a few seconds of staring blankly at her, he gestured towards the icy golems. She turned and stormed off.

He watched her resume her fighting, more sloppily now that she wasn't in the mood, and shook his head before glancing at Seraphine. The older dragoness wiped a pearl of sweat from her brow, lifting an odd metal component for a mechanism from the deep hole she'd bored into the sand and coarse dirt below it.

"Found it," she muttered, nearly too silent to perceive. Cyril raised a scaly brow in her direction, and lifting her head, she gave a weary smile back. She seemed to nearly buckle under her own weight – her legs were noodles. Her expression carried something deeper than exhaustion. He would've suggested she stop for the day, even under the pressure she was in, but she'd denied all of his requests to halt her progress until sundown. She always said she was on the verge of finding a part she required, but she'd only started finding the mechanisms a week ago despite the month she'd been labouring away at her task.

She always exerted her limited energy by dusk; one would think exhaustion was the only thing she was capable of feeling had they never seen her before the project's conception. He knew what sorrow looked like, however, and Sera was full of it. It had appeared as soon as she begun mining for the various parts she needed. The aetherial cannon was getting to her.

He'd accepted the fact this had to be done, but he knew he wasn't supposed to. Fialka was a little rascal still, sure, but he still loved her, and placing her into a chamber to be _consumed_ by a weapon was immoral.

Justified, however?

Completely. She was dead if fortune wasn't on their side.

He turned to look at Fialka once more. She'd been idly smacking away at the golems moments ago, but as it turned out she'd stealthily slipped away when she wasn't under his watchful eye. He groaned to himself. As much as he'd nailed it into her head that she needed to practice, it'd never halted her efforts to break out of the prison she thought she was in. It was all for her own good. Why couldn't she just listen? He grumbled; this happened too often. It needed to stop.

"You need to watch her more, you bag of scales." Sera winked at him; he rolled his eyes back. "It's no wonder she always runs off. You always have your head in the clouds."

He paced up to her, peering into the hole she'd dug. The crevice was deep – only the top half of her skull poked over the sand. Several gizmos and old metals, and even a rusted sword, lay underneath her paws on the stone. This looked to be her most fruitful haul yet.

"Yes, I've found quite a bit, as you can see, probably a trap's worth. There's a whole heap left here in different places as well, I think. Unfortunately, I've misplaced my metal detector..."

By _metal detector_ she meant a young earth dragon, perhaps the same age as Fialka. She paid him in homemade apple pie for his services. He didn't mind.

"Well, he shouldn't be taking days off, considering our current situation," he stated. "Be certain he is here next time, would you?"

"Yes, _master._ " She narrowed her eyes. "Give the kids a break, Cyril. They are only _kids_ , after all."

He exhaled. "Kids or not, we can't utilise our time in such a wasteful manner. The Red Phoenix could be here any moment. We do not have time to sit by and relax. Every minute is one that could be spent in preparation, and every second we lose is another chance to stop them."

"Relax, you old fart," she said. In spite of her age and wrinkled appearance, Sera seemed just as young as Alaina at times. "They can take some days off. I'm sure one session isn't going to make the difference between whether we all die or live."

"Hmph." To him, it could. He never gave up his practising. In fact, he grew older and more fatigued by the day, so there was no reasonable excuse to why Fialka, a dragoness so young, should be trying to snap away from the bonds of her education.

Seraphine leaped from her worksite, joining him on the golden sands above. "You're just going to have to accept that nobody has the determination you do – apart from me, kind of, but I'm getting old. Everyone's either scared out of their mind, going insane, trying to make a run for it before they die – only _to_ die – or a kid just trying to enjoy their childhood before its all over in the blink of an eye. We're all going to starve, dehydrate, go crazy, or be burned alive by the Varlends if we don't get this cannon up and running, and that'll only give us the slimmest chance. It's all up to _us_ to give it our best shot. Not them."

He didn't need to be reminded. He only wanted what was best for Fialka before the Varlends reaped her precious resource – the soul that made her the purple dragon. There weren't many who would be willing to help them at a point like this either.

"Just don't place so much pressure on the kids, Cyril," she asked.

He couldn't do much about that. There was pressure placed upon Fialka before she was even born. That'd been town-wide forever ago. Most had lost their hope in her, though, knowing and speaking of her disobedience frequently. He'd heard recent rumours from two residents struck by anxiety speaking of her as the next Dark Master because of her disinclination to follow the destiny that'd been chosen for her. He'd dismissed them. She'd become nothing of the sort underneath his guidance. Malefor was a lost cause right from the very beginning. Not her.

She wouldn't be a lost cause, even if her fate was to be turned to a charred corpse within a cannon...

"I think I'm done here for today," Sera spoke up again. "I'll get to it again tomorrow, around six in the morning. See you soon."

Cyril waved. He wished he could continue her job for her, but he knew searching for artefacts underground was a convoluted, tedious task, and he would likely destroy the fragile components she required. Educating him on this would take too much time as well, he knew.

As Seraphine left the arena, he found he was alone. Pale orange light glistened over the bare walls around him. The sun had only just risen when he'd arrived here; time had been devoured faster than fire on earth. Another day of training for Fialka gone to waste. She was good – incredibly talented, as all purple dragons should be – but she could still make mistakes. She hadn't been learning to mix up her options. If she was to oppose the Red Phoenix in the traditional way, she was going to have to be perfect.

Did that perfection exist?

He didn't know. He left it alone until the next day.

* * *

"Heya, buddy. Long time no see."

Cyril turned to the voice to find a dragonfly flitting about. He would've wondered how Sparx found a way inside, but his office window was open to give the light breeze entrance.

"Master Sparx." It'd been a fair few weeks since he'd seen the dragonfly, actually. He was usually around somewhere, visiting him and Fialka every few days, but he'd vanished. He'd moved elsewhere, from what Cyril knew, without telling anyone. Cyril found the danger in that unnerving. "How are you?"

The golden dragonfly cracked a grin, landing on the bookshelf he used to sleep in, leaning against the Guardian's archive of stories and nonfiction. "Nivia's worried about us all, but I told her it's no biggie. I'm good, by the way. Sorry I couldn't come around, but I've had my hands full. We had a kid of our own three weeks ago."

"A child? You never told me she was expecting." Just another to add to the grave, his mind added on impulse for him. He cursed mentally at himself for thinking so grim. "I will say, Sparx, that I think _you_ are the last person I expected to ever have a child."

"Nah, I wouldn't say that." His smirk never left his face. "She loves me. Loves me for more reasons than one, if you catch my-"

"And your rotten mind hasn't changed a bit," he interrupted, disgusted yet amused by his vulgarity.

"I'm not one to change. I'm still the same lovable dragonfly you've always known."

"For such an old geezer, your immaturity hasn't disappeared," Cyril remarked. "How old are you now...? Fifty? That's rather old to be having a child, especially for a dragonfly."

"Excuse me, but you're well over a hundred now." Sparx chortled softly. "I know I'm old, but you of _all_ people in Sliverclaw shouldn't be belittling yours truly. She didn't want it until now. She thought we might not have too long left, so she wanted to experience it before anything happens."

"Is that Sparx?!" Fialka's claws tapped across the floorboards as she scampered and came skidding through the doorway. She accidentally slammed into Cyril, who was nearly knocked off balance, but she didn't care. She planted her feet in front of the dragonfly, grinning wildly. He was taken aback by her sudden arrival, but was excited too nonetheless.

"Fialka, how many times have I told you not to run-"

"Yes, he's here, the one and only!" Sparx's noisiness made the Guardian jump. The dragonfly spread his arms wide and Fialka instinctively moved closer, snout-hugging him. "Wow, you've grown a lot."

"You tell me that every time you come!" she exclaimed. Every time he said it, that was her response. "I've grown, like, maybe a millimetre..."

Sparx laughed. "Nah. You're big and strong and...you've got weight issues still, but hey, you ain't what my bro was."

She suppressed a giggle, trying to keep her face straight and her eyes narrowed. If it'd been anyone else they probably would've found the remark offensive, but those few words had become a bit of a running joke between the two, just like it had between Spyro and Sparx. "I'm not that fat...am I?"

"Not fat." The sly smirk across his lips continued to grow. "Yet."

"Hey!" She playfully tried to swat him out of the air. Sparx pretended he was hit, and for dramatic effect, tumbled slowly to the ground. Cyril snickered silently to himself. Fialka just looked at the dragonfly, now uninterested. "You've played dead so many times now..."

He looked up at her. "You've tried to kill me so many times now... Anyway, hey, old guy?"

"What is it?" Cyril asked.

"Mind if I take this 'ness out for a walk? You're probably busy and stuff and don't want the girl around."

"Well, actually-"

"Okay, thanks! Let's go, Fialka." Sparx soared through the office door and Fialka only giggled before joining him. Cyril nearly yelled after him, but he sighed instead. He'd had a great deal to do with her today. He put in all this effort, and then things like this happened.

And now that they were probably long gone, he sighed once more. He cursed at his stupidity. Why did he allow these things to happen when there was so much work to do?

He was left with nothing to do. Boredom knocked at his doorstep. Sometimes he still wished he was writing reports for the offices in Warfang, if only to kill time for situations like this.

It'd been too long since he'd received a letter, actually. Kemori's body was probably out there somewhere. Maybe even Warfang had been effortlessly torn down by the Varlends.

"Hm..." He mused over the thought. Perhaps Mister had an idea. While a complete and utter animal, Cyril didn't know another soul who knew of any recent happenings outside their community.

He shambled through his old hallway, then down the steps to the cellar. Mister's luminescent eyes met his for a moment before they were turned to the floorboards again. He looked thin and more greyer than usual. Cyril hadn't been feeding him. Mister had rejected every meal he offered.

"What do you want, Cyril?" His hoarse voice made him sound ill. Weirder still, the thing never called the Guardian by his name.

"I've come to question you, obviously. What did you expect?"

"Always with the damned questions..." Mister turned himself away from the dragon, arms folded around his legs. "Ask away."

He was generally more composed than this, Cyril thought. "Do you know of Warfang? Does it still stand?"

"It's under siege right now," the Varlend said. "Unless they've already won."

"Well, that isn't very good..."

Mister turned to Cyril and frowned. "You don't sound shocked."

"I'm not." Truthfully, he wasn't. He wouldn't be surprised if they had achieved victory in their vile endeavours. There was nothing shocking about a raid on the once great dragon city. As powerful as Warfang's armies had been, they'd never be a match for them. Cyril hadn't believed in anything going their way for the longest of times now. "When all you do is raid and murder others – very quickly and effectively, I might add – it's a bit difficult to imagine them not storming the walls of Warfang at this very moment."

"We pray to Everett before we battle. No matter our task, we're always prepared to face the inevitable. Well, excluding me. Here I am rotting away in a prison cell..."

"Who is Everett?" Cyril had never heard the name before. Didn't they worship the Ancestors?

Mister appeared surprised.

"The Ancestor of war. Don't you pray to them?"

"No," Cyril answered, giving a grimace of light, dry amusement. He would know; he'd studied his own religion and come top of the class through it. "Most of the Ancestors have names we don't know of. They aren't a series of powerful individuals, like in some religions, but instead they are those who have passed on to the Ocean of Dreams above us. As in, our _literal ancestors._ That's where the name comes from. My Volteer, for instance, would be an Ancestor."

"You're lying to me." In total disbelief, Mister shook his head.

The Varlend sounded as though he didn't know what to believe. Cyril found some sadistic enjoyment in this, certainly after the conversation they'd held a month prior, but he more so thought of the fact that maybe Mister had been wrong about plenty of things, just like S.K.. "Well, you must believe in something entirely different, then. The afterlife shouldn't need a god of war. Up there, only peace should remain."

"She wouldn't lie to us, would she?" he murmured, voice trembling. "It would explain the voices leaving..."

"Whom do you speak of, and what voices?"

The Varlend stopped a moment. Puzzlement flickered across his features. "She's our leader. Somewhat of an opposite to the purple dragon here – the one you call Fialka. We don't know her name or what she is, but she created us. As for the voices, we Varlends hear each other's thoughts – even from distances, although it's weaker. They've disappeared, though..."

"Are you controlled by this entity? Like a hivemind, if you will?"

"Sort of. We aren't controlled by anyone, just highly influenced by other thoughts. If I was closer to my people, however, I probably wouldn't have as much of a personality. Again, though, every last noise is completely gone for me."

"For somebody who said they weren't going to tell me anything important, you seem to tell me things I need to know." Cyril couldn't complain. This knowledge was valuable. If they worked and battled in a logical, predictable way, like a drift of honeybees, then maybe they could be countered with a strategy nobody would suspect...

Mister leaned against his bars, huffing through his small white snout. He was genuinely perplexed. "...I don't know what's important. Nobody's dictating my thoughts and words anymore. How am I supposed to know if I'm not meant to tell you something?"

A good point, Cyril thought. It was either that, or Mister was trying to sway the Guardian into handing him his freedom. The Varlend's expression seemed too authentic for that, but Cyril could've been wrong.

The dragon ran out of questions then. He thought it best to relay this information to Sera. Every piece of information mattered when their demise approached them as it did. Cyril felt he was weaving between glass shards to better their situation.

"I'll leave you to your own devices for now," Cyril said. "I have some other tasks I need to attend to for the day."

The Varlend nodded, keeping quiet. He had a lot to think about, it seemed. Cyril didn't feel great about the creature's situation. He peered over Mister's thin torso for one more moment, shivering ever so slightly. His undernourishment stuck out more so now, for whatever reason. There was nothing he could do about it when Mister trod on the offer of even a crumb. Grimly, he wondered how long a Varlend could go without a decent meal.

Cyril turned and shuffled up the stairway. He'd be better off working at Fialka's skills than chatting now. He swung the front door ajar and stepped down the cobblestone path in search of her and Sparx.

* * *

Another long day, no progress made, for the simple fact he wasn't able to find Sparx until nightfall. Grumpily, he sat atop a gentle, grassy slope, a few yards from his home. He looked to the night sky, a canvas of purples and blues. It was once rare he took to gazing at the stars – his overly busy schedule had made time for this nigh impossible – but he seemed to do it more and more, in spite of his schedule. It seemed only the sky held tranquillity nowadays. The last chunk of their world where tranquillity remained.

It brought him thoughts of the deceased, staring into the Ocean of Dreams. Thoughts of fallen comrades, of those slain in battle, or of just the many civilians caught in the crossfire. He wondered if Volteer oversaw much of the work up there. That was who he thought of most. As plentiful as their unceasing arguments had been, Volteer had been virtually everything to him. He saw much in him when peace had blanketed the Dragon Realms after the eternal conflict, however short-lived the blanket had been.

Peace was up there now, and it always had been. Forever more, in the Dragon Realms, across the rest of the world, chaos would reign. And like peace in the Ocean of Dreams, it always had.

"At least you can't set the stars on fire," he muttered.

"Well, you don't really need to, do you? They _are_ just big balls of exploding gas, you've always told me."

He didn't need to turn to recognise the dragoness behind him, ruining his immersion. "What are you doing up this late, Fialka? You should be resting."

"I could ask you the same question," she answered, seating herself beside him, a metres away. "I couldn't sleep. I've been too fidgety lately."

A smirk curled the Guardian's maw. "You're always fidgety, aren't you? What's so different this time?"

"Well, I'm just _extra_ fidgety tonight then." The darkness made her face look barren, but he could tell she was rolling her eyes. A typical Fialka response. "What are you doing up?"

He exhaled. She needed to go to bed, but he didn't like forcing her around. "Looking at the stars. That's it."

"You're a bad liar. You come out here most nights, if you think I haven't realised. You always have this really weird look about you, ya know? Like you're troubled or somethin'."

If only she knew her destiny. She was right, though. He didn't have a response.

"Is something wrong, or am I just crazy?"

Again, he sighed. "Even you, of all dragons, must know what is happening. A child shouldn't have to experience all that, Fialka. Watching homes burn down, their parents murdered, and... Well, you've probably heard tales from somebody."

"Jedrek wouldn't stop mumbling about it all once. I was about six then. I never forgot the way he spoke. Wouldn't stop going on about all the children..."

Cyril had no clue where that dragon went. He'd run off somewhere, he thought, driven mad by the claustrophobia and death, only to meet the black swarm outside. Sorrow plagued Cyril for all of those people. So many good people, now dead, and if a miracle was to happen, now useless. They couldn't do anything in a state like that.

"...I know you're just trying to hide me from all the stuff happening around us, Cyril. I know you just want me to live a happy life before everything ends."

"That's no way to speak, Fialka..."

"And you don't think it too?"

Once more, no reply. She was right. She sounded more mature than he once pondered.

"I'm not an idiot, Cyril," she said, her voice growing poisonous. He rarely saw her angry, unless she was throwing a tantrum. Something had changed in her. As quickly as her attitude had changed, however, she calmed down. "I...might be twelve, but I think I'm a bit smarter than everyone else thinks. I've heard all that stupid shit from people thinking of me as the next _Malefor_. I remember being praised and given gifts when I was younger, but that's all changed. I see what all the training nowadays is for. I _know_ what I am, and I _know_ what I'm supposed to do. There's a prophecy, after all. I've got to _rid this world of evil_ , as stupid as that sounds."

Fialka shifted in her position, her dull outline moving. She stood, staring into the constellations. Her eyes were set on the luminous dragon painted in the sky.

"It's what I was made to do."

Cyril wished he could speak otherwise, but her words proved truthful. Remorse settled in his stomach. At this point he wasn't sure if his deeds were unjust, though.

"How did Spyro do it all when he was twelve?" she asked. "How do you expect somebody like me to prevent the end of the world? I'm...I'm just a nobody. Nothing more."

Cyril stared at the outline with her. It reminded him of the hero. "Power. Determination... Fortune. Fortune was certainly on our side." He looked back down at her; she shifted her head to the ground. "And trust me, you're not a nobody. You're Fialka. But like you said, nothing more. You're _only_ Fialka."

"How is that supposed to..." She considered it for a moment. Acceptance dawned on her.

"You're Fialka the purple dragon. Being the purple dragon doesn't entail only fulfilling the prophecy. Just...consider your father for a moment."

He peered towards her when she spoke no more. Fialka turned away from the stars and towards their residence. The parched grass crunched as she moved away from him. He asked her where she was off to, and she shook her head, stopping a moment. She turned immediately.

"What did you mean about the train? You know, earlier, during the festival?"

His response was quick. Almost heartless. It'd become simply fact to know about it now, he felt. "Your parents were murdered on it, like everyone else."

"As I thought."

And then she disappeared. He looked her way, assuming she was off to bed, before fixating himself on the bright constellations once more.

He found his words to her idiotic. He didn't believe a word of it.

Fialka's only purpose was to fix everyone's issues, and from the conversation tonight, it was likely she thought that too. His opinion had differed of her, though. She felt...different.

Like he'd thought before, something within her had changed. It was like she'd grown into a responsible dragoness overnight.

But he couldn't possibly regret his words, even a little. He never changed his belief that this was terrible, but instead of feeling that way, he thought himself despicable as well, no longer justified.

A flower such as her shouldn't be wilting so quickly.


End file.
